


Mend What Is Broken

by Lunar_Cherokee



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV), Game of Thrones RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Archery, Arranged Marriage, Badass Sansa, Castamere, F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Smut, House Reyne - Freeform, House Stark, House Targaryen, It's coming, Marriage, New Character - Freeform, Queen in the North, Rains of Castamere, Rape Aftermath, Rape Recovery, Rape/Non-con Elements, Revenge, Sexual Violence, Smut, The Eyrie, The North remembers, Violence, War, Winterfell, direwolf, winter is coming
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-17
Updated: 2017-04-23
Packaged: 2018-06-09 01:00:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 15
Words: 23,795
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6882694
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lunar_Cherokee/pseuds/Lunar_Cherokee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>** Had another work of this name, but it was rubbish, so I'm fixing everything**</p><p>Sansa has heard rumours of what has become of her once-brother, now-cousin, Jon Targaryen. The last she saw of him, she'd left the wall on her own to try and recruit the Umbers in her fight against the Boltons. Things go awry, and she ends up back in Ramsay's grasp - but she's determined to survive, determined for the Wolf to beat the Mad Dog. On the other side of Westeros, Jon struggles to come to terms with his heritage, and a new Stark comes into the picture, convincing the Queen to save Sansa's life. Will the Crown succeed in their fight against the Lannisters, the Boltons, and other hidden enemies? Will Jon ever get to see Sansa again? Will it really be such a simple matter as war to take back the North? Meanwhile, strange and unexpected happenings are brewing in the Free Cities - what will this mean for Westeros?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Sansa Stark (Winterfell)

**Author's Note:**

> Hey everyone, I've done an update 2.0 on this work after some long hard thinking over the storyline and the direction I want it to take. Originally, I was going to demonise Baelish, but the current storyline is much better and much more believable in terms of what the characters are like. I've also invented a new character (don't crucify me, please! I'll try do her the same justice in terms of character depth and complexity as GRRM). So without further ado, here we go!

Sansa’s eyes were falsely fixed on the sheen of the candlelight in her bath water, but her mind wandered afar. The bath was an agonizing juxtaposition – the frozen air around her licking at her wet skin, and the scalding waters she was forced to endure that burnt her skin raw and red. Fire and Ice, she mused. She thought of her brother – cousin – whatever he was, it didn’t matter. She’d overheard Ramsay talk of her “bastard brother,” with sourness in his teeth – it seemed Ramsay had forgotten who he’d been only a small handful of years ago. Jon Targaryen was still a bastard, strictly speaking – Sansa’s aunt Lyanna hadn’t been married to Rhaegar Targaryen when she bore his child. Queen Daenerys, however, saw things in a different light. She was desperate to preserve the noble name of House Targaryen, blood of Old Valyria, and didn’t hesitate to legitimize him. Sansa didn’t know quite how Jon had found out he was a Targaryen – perhaps he happened upon a dragon? Perhaps he’d been lying all along and had dyed his hair dark, when it should have been silvery-white. Perhaps. Some days, the time that had passed between them felt like eternities, and other days it felt like barely any time at all. Today, it happened to be the latter – it had felt like only a few moons ago that she, and Brienne of Tarth had found Jon at the Wall. He’d made quite a name for himself, becoming one of the youngest Lord Commanders of the watch ever to have lived. He’d told her tales of White Walkers, and their army of wights. He’d told her how only dragon glass (otherwise known as obsidian) and Valyrian steel weapons could stop the White Walkers. He told her of his Watch, and how he’d been murdered by his Brothers on the wall, and resurrected by a Red Woman named Melissandre, who was convinced he must be some reincarnation of a warrior that defeated the White Walkers centuries past – she referred to Jon as “the Son of Fire,” or the “Prince that was Promised.” Such irony, thought Sansa, that the bastard Jon Snow became the Prince of the Seven Kingdoms, and had fire in his blood. While she did feel a pang of jealousy at her once-brother, now-cousin’s accomplishments, she was mostly glad that the rulers of Westeros would be just and kind, unlike so many before them. 

Sansa hugged her legs to her chest; cold beads of water spilling down her thighs. A sharp jab of pain pulled her abruptly out of her reverie. Ramsay had beaten her once again, and her body bore the evidence. Blotches of varying shades of black and purple covered most of her body, save for her face and her breasts – he liked her pretty. Her breasts were littered with tiny stab wounds resulting from Ramsay’s over-eager teeth. He liked the way she screamed. She held out an arm to the candlelight, examining her flesh – it looked like she was the victim of some horrible plague, she noted, and that plague was Ramsay Bolton. Her most recent beating was because of her defiance – a guard had called her ‘Lady Bolton,’ and she’d spat out at him that she would not be called by that name, only by Lady Stark – true blood of the North. Ramsay had pressed wooden splints under her nails, he’d stripped her bare – much like Joffrey had once done, and thrown her out in a blizzard to beg for her life. She’d not begged. She was quite willing to die from cold and snow; surely, it would be better than living with her husband. He was nothing less than a monster. After a couple of hours of her silence, Ramsay had realized he needed her – much to Sansa’s resentment – and he had carried her inside. Her lips had been blue, and her skin was paler than the snow. Her hair had looked like a pool of fresh blood against the sleet, and Ramsay liked it. Barely alive, with ragged breathing, Ramsay had taken her anyway. He’d thrown her onto the marriage bed, and clawed and pawed brutally at her delicate form. His fingernails dug shallow trenches in her skin, and his jaws clamped around her breasts. Ramsay did not know what it was to be gentle – he was borne of violence, and he would never be anything but. Her hoarse screams had only spurred him on – his fingers clasped around her throat as he thrust his cock between her legs. She cried out in pain, much to Ramsay’s amusement. He went on for hours – his brutality leaving a trickle of blood oozing from within her. He’d whispered into her hair how he was going to put an heir inside her, and how there was nothing she could do about it. Sansa, however, had grown clever through her years of trials and torment – and she still had friends in the North. She would always mysteriously find a steaming cup of moon tea next to her bed, every time Lord Bolton ravaged her. Each time, she’d drink the liquid as though her life had depended on it, though it singed her throat and burnt her tongue. The North Remembers, she’d told herself. 

Much to Sansa’s amusement, rumours were starting to spread throughout Ramsay Bolton’s own men – that not only was he a bastard who murdered his father, but that he wasn’t virile either – that he might as well have no cock. Whether she was dead or alive, Ramsay Bolton would never be the true Warden of The North, and she would make sure of that. Without an heir of Stark blood, Ramsay’s claim was weak at best, and every so often, handfuls of his men would abandon his cause in the dead of the night. They had been loyal to Roose Bolton, after all – not his mad-dog bastard son. Roose, although a traitorous turn-cloak, and a bloodthirsty madman, had been a cunning strategist. Ramsay, on the other hand, was impulsive, and incapable of forward thinking. It’s only a matter of time, thought Sansa hopefully, before the people of the North revolt against him – including the Bolton soldiers. 

Her bath water had cooled to a comfortable heat, and Sansa sank underneath the surface, opening her eyes and looking up at the ceiling from beneath the water’s depths. The world was so much quieter, she thought. All she could hear was the gentle sloshing of the water against the bathtub’s sides, and her steady heart beat. 

Thud-thud.

Before she could stop her thoughts, she suddenly found herself wishing her heart would just stop beating. She was tired of fighting – the same way Jon had been tired of fighting, when she’d found him at the Wall after she’d escaped with Theon Greyjoy. She had been so close to freedom – she lamented – and Ramsay had caught her because of her own stupidity. Because she had been stupid enough to leave for the Last Hearth, home to Small-Jon Umber, without a swordsman. He had welcomed her in with friendly words and a hot meal, but before she knew it – she was asleep, bound in ropes, in a carriage headed for Winterfell. He’d whispered in her ear that he was going to come get her, and her brother Rickon, but that he needed Ramsay to trust him first. That was two years ago, more or less. Since then, Lord Umber had been killed by a horde of rogue mistrusting Bolton soldiers, and Sansa had been deserted once more. Sansa didn’t know why Jon hadn’t come for her – the thought stung her heart like venom – perhaps he had assumed the best of the Umbers when they sent a raven confirming her arrival. Perhaps he thought she’d got lost on her way back – the Umbers probably set her horse loose – and that she’d perished in the unforgiving weather. 

“Sansa, my Lady, it’s time for bed,” drawled a cold voice from behind the chamber door. “You know I don’t like being kept waiting.”

As she rose from beneath the water, Sansa could practically hear his cruel smile through the door. “I’ll be done in a few more minutes, Ramsay.” She spat the words like poison. Ramsay said nothing, and stalked off – she could hear his overconfident, angry footsteps resonate through the castle corridors. She knew she’d upset him – she had meant to. Perhaps it had been bravery, or perhaps it had been stupidity, but Sansa had vowed to make the marriage as unpleasant as possible – she would not be the obedient wife, not for him. Her eyes turned once more to her now-cooling bath water, as it rippled in the low light. She considered burying her head under the surface again, this time allowing the water to fill her lungs and lull her to her death. But she was stronger than that – she had to stay alive. She had to stay alive for Robb, for her mother, and for her father. She was a lone wolf, and she had to survive the attacks of the vicious dog that was Ramsay. “A dog may harm a wolf, but the wolf will always kill the dog,” she whispered to herself, as she attempted to draw strength from within herself. She knew Lord Bolton would be ruthless and unforgiving – and he’d remember the way she’d spoken to him. He’d make her remember too. 

Sansa heard a soft shuffling coming from somewhere in her chambers – it was dark and truly, she could not see where the candlelight did not reach. “Who’s there?” she whispered, her voice shaking as the words left her lips. The shuffling noise happened again, this time closer to her than before. “Hello?” said Sansa, louder than before, her voice sounding much less fearful than she felt. Perhaps Ramsay had sent someone to kill her – or worse. Before she understood what was happening, or had a chance to cry out for a guard, a cold gnarled hand covered her mouth from behind, pressing her lips sharply into her teeth. Slowly, the figure to which the hand belonged drifted into the candlelight. It was an old woman – her silvery grey hair flew wildly around her face, and the candlelight shone vibrantly in her watery blue eyes. “Hush, child,” she whispered gently, as she carefully drew back her hand, “I did not mean to startle you, but something must be done about that Bolton bastard.” The old woman’s voice hardened as she spoke of Ramsay. “His men are fleeing like hounds from a fire, and the time to strike is now.” The old woman peered at Sansa quizzically, as though she’d expected Sansa to scream or object. 

“What do you need me to do?”


	2. Oberyn Martell (Brothel in Lys)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay so I added a new character - this is not meant to be 100% true to the books or show, but I thought it would be cool - hope you guys enjoy!
> 
> Notes:  
> * Oberyn is obviously not dead  
> * I will fill you in on his back story re: the mountain  
> * Marion Reyne's odd behavior will later be explained  
> * This narrative will tie into something much greater further down the line. House Reyne will be important

Oberyn Martell paced in front of the girls in a way that was sensual and menacing all at once, his paramour, Ellaria taking her pick of the men in another chamber. Oberyn enjoyed pleasure, and Lys was known for its pleasure houses – they were said to be better than any other. The difference lay in that unlike the western lands of the Seven Kingdoms, Lys took time to teach its women the art of pleasure. ‘First you must learn’ had been their motto since he could remember, and their methods did not disappoint. The six women in front of him purred and shimmied in glittering fabrics from Yi-Ti, and Qarth – delicate golden belts hung lazily over their womanly curves, tinkling seductively with each roll of their hips. The women ranged from curvy women with olive toned skin, not unlike his own, and rich chestnut hair, to petite girl-like women with hair and eyes resembling ice. Colourful women, vibrant in their silks and organza, as well as in their spirit – and they all wanted him. ‘I’ve never bedded a prince before,’ purred a woman with rich dark beaded braids, and ebony skin that made Oberyn’s pulse race, ‘I wonder if your cock tastes any different to a commoner.’ She was bold; a devilish smile teased her lips, as she sauntered toward Oberyn, circling him like a predator circles prey. Her hand trailed gently across his chest, and brushed the bare skin on his collarbone. Evidently, she knew what she was doing. “Your name, beautiful woman?” whispered Oberyn, lust filling his heart and his cock. “This one’s name is Emerandei, but my prince may call this one whatever he desires.” Emerandei shot him another smile, making the other women stiffen with envy at her boldness, all of them bristling, but one. 

Oberyn might not have seen her, had his cheek been ever so slightly turned toward Emerandei, she had certainly tried hard to go unnoticed. She was tall and comely – her breasts not much larger than a handful, but Oberyn knew more than a handful was a waste. Her body sloped gracefully into wide hips – good for birthing babes, and a large womanly behind. Her shoulders were petite and her neck, long and graceful. Oberyn stepped closer toward the unnamed woman. She looked no older than eight-and-ten and was unusually demure for a whore. Her eyes stared at the floor underneath his feet, and she intrigued him. Eyes not straying from her, he raised one hand and gestured to the door, signalling for the other women to leave. Emerandei gasped in protest, complaining the girl was yet a maid and could not fulfil him in the ways she could, but Oberyn's hand remained steady - firmly ordering their departure. The girl shuffled uncomfortably under his gaze. He placed his finger gently under her chin, lifting her head so he could see her face. Something of her features was familiar, yet he could not place why. Her skin was the golden-pale colour of beach sand, and her hair, and strange mix of golden blonde and copper, resulting in a rosy gold hue unlike any Oberyn had seen. Her eyes shone vividly from their sockets, the bright blue-green of the ocean decorated with flecks of amber-gold. If nothing else, the girl was beautiful. The silken dress she wore only intensified her beauty – the same green-blue as the colour of her eyes, bringing her hair and skin to life, and a golden belt clinching her waist emphasised her womanly figure. 

Oberyn did not know why he had chosen this girl, for her demure and ladylike behaviour did not inspire lust in him, as Emerandei had done. Perhaps it was the mystery about her – her silence and her exotic looks. She certainly did not look like her ancestors had come from Lys, and Oberyn had seen enough of the world to be sure of this. “What is your name, shy girl?” teased Oberyn, his hand resting on her waist. “My name is Marion, Prince Oberyn of House Martell.” She replied. Her voice was soft and lyrical, and somehow relaxed Oberyn to hear. Oberyn noted the way she spoke bore no trace of Lys. She must be new to these lands, he thought. Perhaps this strange girl sought a new life. The girl did not appear to have noticed her mistake. “This one,” chuckled Oberyn, his eyes fixed keenly on her despite his laugh. “I’m sorry, my prince?” said the girl, confusion furrowing her dainty brow. “This one’s name is Marion – that’s how they say it in these lands. You are not from around here. A bastard of nobility, perhaps? I couldn’t help but notice your accent, your manner of speaking, and the fact you addressed me by not only my name, but also my family House.” The girl’s face darkened and her shoulders drew together as she tensed. “I am no bastard.” She whispered.

“…In a coat of gold, or a coat of red, a lion still has claws. And mine are long and sharp my lord, as long and sharp as yours.” 

Marion’s voice lilted the song Oberyn so passionately hated, and though her voice was beautiful, the lyrics brought blazing rage to his heart. “And what Lannister have you bedded to get you singing their sweet song of death and pride?” Spat Oberyn through his teeth. His hand drew to his dagger, despite his instincts – he was torn between his hatred of the Lannisters, and his refusal to harm women. Somehow, Oberyn thought he could make exception to his rule. The girl noted his anger and said nothing, only opening her full lips to sing once more,

“And so he spoke, and so he spoke, that Lord of Castamere, and now the rains…”

“…Weep o’er his hall, and not a soul to hear.” Finished Oberyn, venom and danger seeping into his voice. Oberyn’s hand flicked off the hilt of his dagger, and shot towards the pale throat of the girl. She must be a Lannister, he decided, sent to taunt him by that vile woman – Cersei. She did love her games, after all. Perhaps he could cut out her tongue and send it in a box to the Lannisters, to show them what Dorne thinks of their vicious little games. 

Marion did not flinch or resist; only closing her eyes as his fingers snaked around her throat. She did not fight him, or cry. Marion stood firm like a mountain in a gale; the only movement she made was when her small hand drifted towards a small silver pendant that hung around her neck. Her hand closed around the pendant, and her knuckles turned white from her grasp. Her face turned pink, and then purple, and then tinged with deep blue before her eyes fluttered and her hand dropped limply to her side, leaving her beloved pendant exposed against her smooth bosom. 

A red lion, with an indistinguishable forked tail, roaring proudly against the silver field glistened in Oberyn’s palm as he sucked in a sharp breath. 

“House Reyne,” he breathed, as he fell to his knees, Marion’s limp body clutched firmly to his chest. 

‘And now the rains weep o’er his hall, with not a soul to hear.’


	3. Oberyn Martell/Ellaria Sand (Pleasure House in Lys)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A lot of you were left slightly confused after the bomb I dropped in Ch2, but here's something a little more explanatory! Hope you all enjoy! Please leave comments with advice or requests if there is anything you want to see in either Sansa's, Jon's or Marion's storyline. Thanks! :)

Feeble breath escaped the blue-tinged lips of the Reyne woman. Oberyn breathed a sigh of relief; he wasn’t sure quite why he felt anything at all for this girl – why he even cared she was alive, but something in him felt a deep-rooted sorrow for all her house had to endure. He knew, more or less, what had happened to House Reyne, but he couldn’t help but wonder how it could be that this girl was here, in Lys – that she was alive. 

Oberyn’s hands expertly worked over her neck checking for broken bones, his Citadel training making itself useful. He opened her jaw and breathed into her chest, clearing her airway. Her eyes fluttered open, and her breathing became steadier. She opened her mouth to say something, but no sound escaped her lips. “Do not try to speak, girl, I nearly killed you. You need time to heal before you speak again – perhaps a few days,” stated Oberyn, as he massaged his temple in frustration with himself. Had he really allowed his hatred of the Lannisters consume him to such an extent that he’d been willing to murder, what was to him, a little girl? All without even allowing her a chance to explain herself? The girl’s eyes were wide and suspicious – a marked change from moments ago where she’d been stoic and unbroken as his large hands enclosed her throat. Oberyn supposed nearly dying would change a person. 

“Do not worry yourself, I am not going to try and kill you… again. I was under the impression you were a Lannister whore, and by your earlier actions I’ll assume you already knew of my hatred for the Lannisters. My reputation obviously precedes me.” Oberyn’s voice was soft and reassuring, but Marion’s eyes remained fixed on him as though he were a viper ready to strike. “Why did you not speak your House name as I attacked you? You did not fight me, or struggle against my grip – although I have never harmed a woman, so I do not know what I should have expected. We do not harm little girls in Dorne. Why did you not fight to free yourself?” Marion Reyne’s eyes softened, as she looked down at her lap, lips parting as her hand wandered to the sigil around her neck. She looked like she wanted to speak, noted Oberyn. “Did you wish to die?” The girl slowly looked up to meet Oberyn’s dark eyes, her oceanic eyes filling with tears. She nodded once, and then looked back down at her lap. “I suppose a brothel is no place for a noble Lady. Did these people harm you?” Oberyn’s care for the strange girl grew ever so slightly – her tears had awoken something in him. Both sorrow and rage. Yet another innocent girl the Lannisters had destroyed – directly or not. Marion did not reply, but lifted the hem of her dress to expose an angry-looking recently done slave branding. Oberyn realized she’d been sold to a slave master before she’d landed up in a brothel. “We also do not keep slaves in Dorne,” was all he managed to say, as horror froze his heart. 

After a few fleeting moments, Oberyn had made up his mind. He would bring the Reyne girl with him to Dorne. 

He bent down and scooped the wide-eyed Reyne girl into his arms, her rosy-gold hair spilling in waves down his chest. Her thin skirts of Qarthian silk clung to her form, and her arms looped desperately around his neck. It did not take much convincing on Oberyn’s part for the brothel keeper to surrender Marion to him. Oberyn did, after all, have a small army of knights and sell-swords waiting for him in the nearby harbour. The brothel keeper was a horrid looking man, his eyes – a murky violet of Old Valyria. His face bore a constant grimace, hidden partially by his violet-dyed pointed beard. He was tall, and probably intimidating to the whores, but Oberyn was not intimidated by anything, least of all a bald brothel keeper with purple facial hair. 

“The bitch was trouble anyway,” spat the brothel keeper as Oberyn handed over a fistful of gold – the asking price for the Reyne girl. “Always run away from customer, never want to sell her cunt. Cost me many customer who do not want to force a woman, but pay good money for a woman to want to fuck him.” Oberyn silently nodded, anger claiming his heart as the man spoke. Oberyn turned on his heel and walked towards the heavy wooden brothel doors, his jaw clenched in an effort not to speak what he truly thought of the brothel keeper. He heard throaty chuckling from behind him. “Fuck some manners into this red hair bitch,” laughed the man. At that, Oberyn could no longer contain himself. He swiftly turned on his heel and launched a throwing dagger into the throat of the brothel keeper. The heavy thud as the man fell lifelessly to the floor was more satisfying than Oberyn would admit to himself. He did not want to enjoy killing, but enjoy it – he did. People always seemed to forget his title when he graced them with his hospitality and good will. It is dangerous to forget you are dealing with a viper, mused Oberyn as he kicked open the brothel doors, making his way to his ship.

As soon as the ship was safely out the harbor, making voyage for Dorne once again, he made his way down the stairs, towards the Reyne girl’s cabin. As he walked in, he found Ellaria curled gently around the girl, tending to her neck and branding wound with a balm she’d made. Ellaria spoke gently and kindly to the girl, whose eyes were now heavy with sleep. She gestured crudely for Oberyn to leave the cabin. Her eyes were dark and narrow as she stared him down. He said nothing, but turned on his heel and waited for his paramour in his own chambers, readying himself for her wrath. A flash of yellow met his eyes before a heavy handed slap stung his cheek. “How could you hurt this girl so? You have daughters older than this child.” Ellaria’s mouth pulled into a thin line, her hand balled into a fist at her side. Oberyn had learned many years ago not to cross Ellaria, Red Viper or not, “She started singing that Lannister song and I assumed she was a Lannister whore sent to toy with me – you know what they are like with their games.” Oberyn tried to explain himself, but his talking only seemed to further enrage his paramour. She started muttering quickly under her breath about how he was an idiot, and how men were impulsive. “And did you not think to ask her why she was singing the stupid song? Did you not wonder how the Lannisters could possibly know you were visiting Lys, or why they cared enough to send a fucking whore to sing at you? Do you not think that if they wanted to torment you, as you so cleverly assumed, that they would do it in some way other than send a fucking whore to sing to you?” 

Oberyn did not answer – he knew Ellaria was right. He had allowed his anger to get the better of him before he’d even known the truth of the situation. It was a mistake he would not make again. Oberyn leaned in to kiss Ellaria, who struck him once more and muttered how stupid men could be, before she melted into his arms. Oberyn admired the fire in his paramour, often wishing he were allowed to make her his wife. He knew, however, that his title held a duty independent of the wants of his heart. Thankfully, in Dorne, his paramour was treated with all the respect his wife would gain, but he could never say the same for Westeros.

Ellaria lay on her belly, the linens draped over her, as she laid her head on Oberyn’s chest. Their lovemaking had made her content, and she’d forgotten her anger. He kissed the top of her head, and wrapped his arm affectionately around her waist. He did not want to destroy their bliss, but Ellaria needed to know about the girl’s lineage, and his plans for her. “Ellaria, my love, I need to discuss something about the girl with you.” He purred as he kissed her forehead. Ellaria sighed and lifted her chin to look into her lover’s eyes, “I know she is of nobility. I saw the sigil on her necklace, but I do not recognize it.” “Do you remember the infamous Lannister song, ‘The Rains of Castamere’? The story behind that song?” asked Oberyn, as he stroked Ellaria’s back. “In part. I know it’s about a House that lived in Castamere, that Tywin Lannister saw fit to destroy. Why?” Asked Ellaria, her curiosity growing. “The lyrics – they say ‘a coat of gold, a coat of red, a lion still has claws.’ The lion with the coat of gold is obviously the Lannisters. The lion with a coat of red?” Ellaria gasped in sudden realisation, “The girl’s necklace had a sigil of a red lion with a forked tail. You don’t think she’s a survivor of that attack?” Oberyn furrowed his brow and thought before answering – “She is far too young to have survived the attack herself, it must have been her father who escaped as a child. I’m interested to hear how he survived; I do not think she is an impostor. Nobody would wear the sigil of House Reyne so willingly after what Tywin Lannister has done.”


	4. Jon Snow/Daenerys Targaryen/Benjen Stark (King's Landing)

It had been only a few years ago since Jon had found out his parentage. Daenerys, the new Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, along with her Unsullied and her Dothraki, and a handful of Mereenese had wanted to ‘break the wheel.’ Only, once she’d been given power, “the wheel” wasn’t the only thing she’d wanted to break. She blamed the Lannisters, the Starks and the Baratheons for the downfall of her family, but it was only the Lannisters she chose on which to exact revenge. The Baratheons were all but gone, and the Starks had only done what they thought was right. They hadn’t wanted to sack the city, and have her sister-in-law, and her infant nieces and nephews raped and murdered, respectively. However, it had taken some convincing and Jon’s second execution for her to pardon the Starks for all crimes against the Crown; against her family. 

She’d wanted to make an example of Jon, and had the townspeople gather, while he was beaten and tied to a pyre, awaiting execution by being burnt at the stake. Jon had been terrified, but his solemn Stark face did not betray his terror, and for that he had been grateful. He’d watched Mance Rayder burn, and had seen the terror and pain in the eyes of the usually-fearless man, before Jon could no longer stand by and do nothing, and had spared Mance the agony by firing an arrow into his heart. It was a mercy. A mercy Jon would surely never get. Imagine the surprise of the townspeople and Jon himself, when he just did not burn. Jon had expected his skin to pucker and blacken against the heat. He’d expected his blood to bubble in his veins, and to perish with the smell of his own burning flesh ripe in his nostrils. But the flames were little more than an uncomfortable kiss on his bare flesh, as his clothing burned away. 

Daenerys had not been present when his pyre had been lit – Jon anticipated she was not one to watch suffering. After some time, when the flames had nearly burnt themselves out, leaving licks of ash and soot on Jon’s pale northern skin, did Queen Daenerys Targaryen present herself. Her silvery white tresses, reminiscent (at least to Jon) of the snow in the North, had been unmistakable as she approached Jon from within the crowd. A small smile had played upon her full lips, as her violet eyes drank up the image of his ash-covered naked form. With little more than a flick of her wrist, the guards around him had hastily untied Jon, and cloaked him in black and red. Jon had been more than a little confused, and had silently thanked the gods that he had somehow survived the fires. Queen Daenerys glided to the execution pyre and leaned in to Jon, as though she had wanted to kiss him – before moving her lips to his ear and whispered the words: “Fire cannot kill a dragon.” 

Later, Jon had realised that the entire execution had been a charade for unveiling him to the people as another living Targaryen – there was now not one, but two. There was now a male heir to the family name, and the Targaryen bloodline would not be lost. The Queen had concocted the charade after her mysterious meeting with Lord Benjen Stark. Apparently, Ned Stark had shared the truth of Jon’s parentage with his brother in the Night’s Watch, in the event that Eddard perished before sharing the truth with the man he’d raised as his own son. Jon Snow was the bastard of Rhaegar Targaryen, and Lady Lyanna Stark. Some say Rhaegar had kidnapped and raped Lyanna – but according to Benjen, Lyanna had simply been bewitched by the man, and was to become his second wife. Elia Martell had been pregnant with a third child by Rhaegar, yet three moons along when she’d been murdered. Elia had refused to drink moon tea, and had refused to cease intimate relations with her husband. A maester had warned Elia that, should she become with child, that child would be her death. Knowing that she was not an infertile woman, Elia had advised her husband to find a lover, so that he would not be lost and alone when she met her end and left this realm. She had considered giving Rhaegar a second son a worthy enough cause for her own death. The entire story was terribly sad. Lady Lyanna had become with child faster than anyone had anticipated. Rhaegar had planned to legitimise the child, and give him the title of Targaryen. Sadly, this was never to be. The Lannisters had seen to that, and now Jon hated them all the more for it.

Queen Daenerys, of course, wasted no time in legitimising Jon. By nightfall, on the very day of his false execution, he already had the title of Jon Targaryen. Queen Daenerys had understood the importance of the North, to Jon. She knew what it felt like to be taken away from one’s home, and treated like some unwanted creature. She had made the decision to break tradition in King’s Landing, and allow Jon the opportunity to represent both noble Houses. He would represent the Targaryens by being one of the Unburnt, and by learning to ride Viserion, one of Daenerys’ three dragons. However, he would still be a Stark – with his strong bond with his direwolf, and his ability to warg. He was now named Jon Stark-Targaryen, and would be allowed to live under either sigil – the wolf, or the three-headed dragon. Daenerys’ only condition was the Jon’s wife and children would carry the Targaryen name. 

Today, two years later, Jon had established himself as a fine ruler of Westeros. Daenerys had been kind enough to allow him a shared reign, by contract of marriage. However, he had politely declined reign and had told her she should marry for love. Behind her violet eyes and temper of a dragon, she had a kind, soft heart that – although much betrayed – still longed for love; for a family. Out of gratitude for all the Queen had bestowed onto Jon, he asked Melissandre to grant her a measure of kindness. At first, the Queen had been skeptical and nervous. She’d shuffled uncomfortably as she lay on the maester’s slab. Jon did not blame her – the last experience she’d had with a witch had left her barren, killed her child, and rendered her husband a paralytic. Melissandre, however, was more than a witch. She did not kill without purpose or unleash illness upon the innocent – all she did was serve Jon, and her Lord of the Light. Melissandre had recited ancient incantations, with her hand resting upon the exposed belly of the Queen. She prayed to the Lord of the Light, that he would shine his light upon her womb so that one day she may bear a child to serve Him. Daenerys had gone into a fit, her eyes rolling back into their sockets, and her entire body shaking. Melissandre’s hands had burned and blackened against Daenerys’ fiery skin – then all of a sudden, the fit stopped and all the many red candles in the room were all extinguished at once. The Red Priestess claimed it was done. The Lord had undone her curse. The Queen slept for five days and five nights, until her moon blood began. As time passed, Daenerys became more and more hopeful that Melissandre had been right in her assertion – her moon blood, which had been irregular and short lived in the past, barely more than a feeble trickle in the past, was now predictable, reliable and uncomfortably heavy. Even so, the Queen was grateful. 

The Queen’s options for King-consorts were limited, and unappealing. She would not marry Edmure Tully, despite his fair looks and good heart, as “a dragon cannot not marry a fish.” She had cast aside Quentyn Martell before her advisor, Tyrion, had begun listing Edmure’s good traits as she claimed her House had been too long allied with the Martells, and such a marriage would harbour distrust amongst the people in Westeros. Besides, she claimed, Quentyn would surely expect her to live with him in Dorne – and she had no intention of ruling from within Dorne. She had no interest in “the Tyrells and their pillow-biters.” She had no intention of becoming the second wife of the butcher – Ramsay Bolton. She had, however, taken a fair liking to Lord Benjen Stark. She enjoyed hearing his stories of his years North of the Wall, and how the Forest Children had saved him from turning into a White Walker. She enjoyed his dark hair and grey eyes, and adored the man’s honour. 

Their conversations had been light and pleasant, until one day. They had been eating a light lunch of breads, figs and cheeses in Benjen’s solar. He had seemed strangely troubled for days, and hadn’t been able to maintain his usual interesting and pleasant conversation. That day he’d barely eaten half a fig, and hadn’t touched his favourite wine. 

“My Queen, Daenerys,” Benjen began, a solemn look in his eyes, “I have something to ask of you.” Daenerys said nothing, but cocked her silver head to one side, so her snowy curls cascaded down her shoulder. She truly was beautiful. “My niece, Lady Sansa Stark of Winterfell, has been Ramsay Bolton’s prisoner for the past two years.” The Queen laid her plate on the table in front of her, and massaged her temple. She had suddenly gone pale. “Ramsay Bolton is a power-hungry butcher, and a murderer,” hissed Daenerys through her teeth. “Aye, your Grace. He has been raping and beating Sansa all this time. All while we thought her dead.” “Does Jon know?” Asked Daenerys, her brow furrowed as she imagined all the horrors Sansa must have endured at the hands of the Bolton bastard. “No, your Grace. Jon loves his family, and he does not have the wisdom to know the difference between what is right, and what must be done. If Jon knew, he’d have charged off on his own, long before anyone would have had the opportunity to reason with him.” The Queen stood up, towering over Benjen as she did – her fist clasping the edge of the table as though she expected her fingers to tear through it. “The opportunity to reason with him?” Daenerys spat, “The girl he still considers to be his sister; his blood, is out there in Winterfell, likely pinned down underneath this grotesque butcher boy, and you wish to reason with him?!” She spat angrily, memories of her treatment under her viciously cruel and equally power-hungry brother, Viserys, and the early days of her marriage to Khal Drogo flooding her thoughts. 

“No, my Queen, merely to spend a handful of hours drawing up a plan for her rescue. Ramsay Bolton has lived in Winterfell for close on four years now. Jon has not been there in a long while – he no longer has the support of the people, or the knowledge of what happens within the walls of Winterfell. The Boltons have the support of the damned Lannisters, the traitors that are the Umbers and the Karstarks, and a couple of smaller Houses. They have a ruthless army. They have the advantage. We need to ensure we do not rush into this rescue mission uninformed and unaware,” finished Benjen, seemingly slipping back into his own mind. “Alright, Lord Stark,” said Daenerys coldly, “what would you have me do?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So here we get to see what's happening in King's Landing! Let me know what you think, lovelies! If you have any ideas for Benjen/Danaerys?


	5. Jon Snow/Daenerys Targaryen/Benjen Stark (King's Landing)

Jon was too filled with fury to move or speak. He eyed the fork in front of him, considering all the things he would do to the men who’d hurt Sansa. She had come to him in Castle Black, looking for his warmth and protection, and he had failed her. He’d allowed her to be plucked from right under his nose, and could not comprehend his own stupidity in truly believing she’d lost her life to the cold. She was a Stark of Winterfell, after all. The North, and its ice and biting frost was her home; their home. He had tried to forgive himself when he’d been brought the skeleton by his men at the Night’s Watch. It had been found only a few yards from where the carcass of Sansa’s horse had been found. Truly, the skeleton was not at all identifiable as Sansa. It has been more or less the same height as she’d been, and the scalp had been partially intact, revealing clumps of matted auburn hair. This, paired with the discovery of Sansa’s dead horse, and the fact the skeleton wore Sansa’s self-made cloak left Jon little reason to question the validity of the claim that it had once been his sister. Brienne of Tarth, however, had not bought the idea so easily. She vowed to find her Lady, and had disappeared in the dead of night, without informing even Pod. Brienne, unlike Sansa, was not used to the biting cold that blanketed the North, and when she never returned and no body was found, it had been assumed that she, too, had fallen victim to the ruthless climate. Now, however, Jon wondered whether Brienne had made it to Winterfell, only to be taken as a captive by Ramsay Bolton. Soon after Brienne’s disappearance, Jon, the Mormonts, The Wildlings and the Manderlys had attacked. Neither side won, nor lost. Jon and his remaining men had agreed on a peace treaty. Small-Jon Umber had claimed that Rickon Stark and Osha had been swiftly killed with little pain, and had presented the partially decomposed head of Shaggydog, Rickon’s direwolf. Lord Ramsay Bolton had allowed him to inspect the entirety of Winterfell. Needless to say, Ramsay’s dungeons and chambers bore no sign of Brienne, or of Rickon. Ramsay had even seemed genuinely enraged when he asked for Sansa, and had been told she’d perished whilst riding to the Last Hearth. Jon had chosen not to delve any deeper, and had saved the lives of nearly a thousand Wildlings, along with the majority of the Mormont and Manderly armies. He did not have the energy or the conviction to keep fighting for a barren home that bore no resemblance to the one from his memories, and with a heavy heart, had resolved to travel to the South as he’d discussed with the new Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch. That was when Queen Daenerys had found him and had pretended to order his death. She’d been kind and promised to take Winterfell back from the Boltons once the Seven Kingdoms were trusting and stable. Jon had agreed that five years was not much of a price to pay. 

However, with the new information Benjen and the Queen had bestowed on him, even two days longer seemed like too much to ask. Images of Sansa beneath Ramsay’s heaving body, tears streaming down her face haunted his mind – and he couldn’t escape. Even Ghost had barred his fangs and growled at Benjen and Daenerys upon hearing the news, although Jon knew Ghost had just been feeling his own fury. “Are you mad?! You expect me to wait a fucking moon, until I’m able to rescue what is quite possibly the last of Eddard Stark’s children?” Shouted Jon, in a voice so loud and booming that it had caused Ghost to jump in fright. “Do not speak that way in front of the Lady Queen,” warned Benjen through his teeth, as he stood up and stepped towards Jon. Queen Daenerys raised her palm, “That’s quite alright, Benjen. I’ve travelled with hoards of murderous men, and ruled the Dothraki. Do you not think that by now I’ve grown accustomed to cursing and rage?” 

Jon ignored both the Queen, and Benjen, and continued, “Thank the Gods Sansa has avoided producing an heir for that fucking cunt. Do you really wish to test fate with another month? She would never recover from that. That child – a child that is half monster – would destroy her. I will not have my sister subjected to that butcher any longer. I leave tonight.” “Jon, just hear us out, please. Your uncle Benjen has a very good plan, which may well get all of us out alive – including Sansa. If the Gods are cruel and allow the seed of that monster to take hold inside Sansa’s womb, do not fret. We have maesters. We have Melissandre. I would burn cities to the ground, and feed a thousand men to Drogon and his brothers before I allow Sansa to carry a child she does not want.” Daenerys’ conviction momentarily stilled Jon’s fury. He sat down, and rested his head in his hands, still eyeing the golden fork in front of him. Benjen pulled up a chair, and sat beside Jon, resting a comforting hand on his shoulder. “The Bolton Butcher has gone more, and more mad. His soldiers and people are deserting him, and the people of the North are on the brink of a revolt. A week ago, one of the Bolton men approached me. He sought sanctuary in the capitol in exchange for information, and he spilled a thousand raven’s worth of information.”

Jon did not look up at Benjen, nor did he say anything, so Benjen continued, “Sansa was abducted by three of Ramsay’s men. They had been watching her since she found that Tarth woman, and headed off to find you. When she left the protection of Castle Black, with no swordsman – or swords-woman – they saw their chance and took it. Small-Jon Umber had allowed the men to rest within the Last Hearth. They simply abducted her on her way back to Castle Black, after masquerading as Umber men. Bolton has five thousand soldiers in his army – it is unsurprising that Sansa did not recognise their faces. Especially considering that Butcher boy kept her locked up in her chambers. By the time you, your wildlings, and the rest of your army arrived, Bolton already had what he wanted. He had Sansa and Rickon hidden in the Hounds’ kennels while you searched for them. Ramsay knew you wouldn’t trust him enough to venture into the kennels, even should you think of it in the first place. With the empty castle, and the skeleton of some unfortunate woman who’d died in childbirth, who happened to have a similar enough hair colour to our Sansa, no one blames you for believing what you did. Any of us would have thought the very same. Bolton made sure that no one but his own men knew his wife had returned – there was no way of knowing. You didn’t know you had something to fight for. Your home had been Castle Black for years, and with everything that you believed happened to your family, no one expected you to go to war over a home that no longer felt like home, especially after the Queen, here, gave you her word she would take it back for you.” 

Without warning, Jon beat his fist into the table with such force; it knocked over all the water goblets, and caused the silverware to fly. With gritted teeth, and murderous eyes, he turned to Benjen. “You’ve waited a fucking week to tell me?” Jon picked up the fork he’d been eyeing, and tackled Benjen to the floor, attempting to stab his uncle in the jugular. Daenerys shouted and clawed at Jon, but he barely heard nor felt her. Jon's right hand wrapped around his uncle's throat, and Benjen’s face began to turn purple, his eyes bulged unnaturally out of their sockets, and the veins of his temple began to protrude as he attempted to free himself from Jon's iron grip. Before Jon knew what was happening, he was being pulled from Benjen by no less than three King’s Guard, with two men holding Benjen for good measure. Daenerys, surprisingly, did not seem angry – only somewhat exasperated. “Jon, you cannot try to murder your uncle because he withheld information for a few days. He spoke with me yesterday afternoon, over lunch. I, too, was angry at first. I may not know Sansa, but living under Viserys and the Dothraki was no easy life. I know what it is to be naught but an object to buy and sell, and what it is to have no control over whether or not a man takes you. Thankfully Khal Drogo was not as much of a monster as he was brutish. I expect Sansa has endured unspeakable horrors at the hands of that Bolton boy, but we cannot risk losing her again by storming Winterfell. Your uncle has come up with a good plan.”

Inexplicably, once again, Daenerys had calmed Jon with her words and melodic, sure voice. He did not doubt her sincerity, and he trusted she would make the best decision for everyone, whether he liked it or not. In all truth, Jon knew he had allowed his anger, and his desperation to have some sort of family, get the better of him. His nature was not one of volatility and aggression – yet he knew he was barely able to contain his emotions and allow his mind to do the work, where his loved ones were involved. With a long, resigned sigh, he shook free of the King’s Guard, and turned to Daenerys. “Alright. I’m listening. What is this plan?” 

“As far as Ramsay Bolton knows, no one but he and his men know he still has a living wife. Everyone else thinks he is a widower who lost his dear wife to the harsh Northern cold. As far as every unmarried man in the Seven Kingdoms is concerned, I seek a King-consort to rule beside me. I have already sent Ramsay a raven, requesting to visit him in Winterfell – I expressed some subtle interest in him, as my potential future King-consort. I have little doubt that such a power-hungry little beast would turn down the opportunity to have audience with the most powerful woman in the Seven Kingdoms. Don’t you worry about the part I shall play – only know I can buy you and your uncle an hour of time in which to seek out Sansa and her little brother. If we do not return by the next daybreak, ten thousand of my men will march on Winterfell.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> New chapter, guys! Hope this clears up some stuff!


	6. Sansa Stark/Daenerys Targaryen/Jon Snow (Winterfell)

“…The time to strike is now.” The words had rung loud and full of hope in Sansa’s head that night, and Sansa whispered them like a mantra whenever her hope began slipping from her grasp – which was often, especially recently. Ramsay Bolton had been even more volatile since another handful of his guards deserted his cause. His army was now down to less than four thousand men; she’d heard him say to one of his Generals. His men truly were fleeing like hounds from a fire. Sansa shoved her cold hand into the hidden pocket she’d stitched into the inside of her cloak. Her pale fingers curled around the hilt of the old woman’s dagger in anticipation. 

Since Ramsay had received the raven from Daenerys Stormborn, Queen of Westeros, Sansa knew her days amongst the living were numbered. Most power hungry men would have killed Sansa by now, but she knew Ramsay so enjoyed his little games. He enjoyed beating her. He enjoyed dragging the tip of his sword across her naked flesh, splitting her skin like fissures in the ground. Each night, his ritualistic torments would grow progressively worse. More blood, more pain, more torment than each night before. The Queen was to arrive on the morrow – Sansa knew this night might very well be her last. 

As it turned out, the old woman was the ailing mother of one of Ramsay’s men. The man in particular had originally served the Karstarks, and did not approve of Ramsay’s rule of Winterfell – but what could he do? He was but one man. The woman had told Sansa he’d deserted along with some other Karstark and Bolton men, and had made his way to King’s Landing to seek audience with the new Queen, regarding Winterfell. Neither Sansa, nor the old woman knew if he’d completed his task, or if the new Queen really was considering Ramsay as her suitor. Sansa’s heart, defeated, made her expect only the worst. 

Two harsh raps on the door echoed in Sansa’s cold room, before the door swung violently open, colliding with the castle’s stone wall. The whole room seemed to shake, and Sansa knew this was her cue to be frightened. Only, the fear did not come. Sansa’s hand smoothed the front of her cloak, inconspicuously assuring herself of the presence of the dagger. Her breathing was steady, and her heart pounded in her chest – but she was not afraid. Ramsay Bolton’s boots clicked sharply against the stone floor, tracking an unpleasant mixture of sleet and mud with every step. Sansa ignored his presence, and walked towards the window, facing out and looking out onto the lives of the people of Winterfell. Her people. Ramsay’s boots continued to click menacingly behind her, coming to a rest when she could feel the sickening warmth of his breath on the back of her neck. “What is it today, Ramsay? Splints under my fingernails? Cutting lines into my skin? Beating me until I’m no longer conscious, perhaps? Or is it something more original this time – perhaps feeding me to your stupid hounds like you did your whore Myranda?” Sansa’s words were emotionless and icy, each word aimed like a dagger at Ramsay’s ego and his heart. She could practically hear the insanity and anger bubble in his veins. Ramsay’s hand collided with her shoulder, painfully spinning Sansa around, to face him. Her face was stone, and her heart was steel as she sneered disgustedly at his reddening face. 

“I fed Myranda to the hounds because you and your traitor, Reek, killed her,” he said, an insane smile spreading on his thin lips, and rage glinting in contrast with the ice in his eyes. “Oh yes, I had nearly forgotten. The whore had to die – she was trying to stand between me, and my freedom of you. You see, I’d kill every Bolton man, woman and child if it meant I no longer had to endure your company.” A false smirk lingered on Sansa’s lips, intent on igniting the fires of rage in Ramsay, for when he was angry, he could not think, and Sansa needed him not to think tonight. “I loved Myranda,” said Ramsay, matter-of-factly, as though he was telling Sansa the name of his favourite meal. “You wouldn’t know what love was if it drove a dagger into your blackened heart.” It was at this point that Ramsay had finally snapped. 

Sansa wasn’t sure how long he’d been beating his fists into her when she’d lost consciousness. She wasn’t even sure why he’d stopped, but for some reason she was unable to recall, he had. Sansa tried to open her eyes – her left eye was swollen tightly shut, and her right eye saw only darkness. After a few long moments, she began to make out the jagged stone walls and iron bars of Winterfell’s dungeon. There was no light here, and it was completely impossible to discern what time of the day it was, or whether it was even day at all. The coldness of the dungeon nipped at her nose and her fingers, and she drew her cloak tighter around her. She could still feel the weight of the well-concealed dagger. Sansa shuffled stiffly where she lay, her head spinning as her body reminded her of what she’d endured that night. Her ribs ached as her chest shakily attempted to rise and fall. It felt as though a knife pierced her lung as she inhaled, and she spluttered and coughed until her palms were coated in slick blood. The smell of rust and salt filled her nostrils, and her mouth tasted only the bitter tang of blood. She shuffled once more, and rolled to her side, allowing the blood to ooze more freely from her mouth. The agony as damn near unbearable, but at least this way, Sansa could breathe without spluttering blood all over herself. As she shifted, she also felt a familiar, nauseating stabbing ache within her womanhood, and was acutely aware her vicious husband had raped her once again. 

 

\--

Daenerys had never seen snow in all her travels, and while she could appreciate its beauty, something about it repelled her. Fire and ice do not mix well, she mused. She glanced upwards, absent-mindedly checking her children were still there – as any mother does. She smiled affectionately up at her three beautiful dragons, as they glided gracefully above the clouds, so high in the air, they appeared no bigger than doves. Nobody else had seemed to notice the dragons – the clouds were dark, and hung low over Winterfell, and had she not been their mother, Daenerys knew that she, herself would have been none the wiser. Regally seated on a mare as silver as her hair, Daenerys rode towards the gates of Winterfell’s castle. She spotted Ramsay in a second – the insanity in his icy eyes was visible, even from afar. “My Queen,” he called, a bright smile spreading across his face, as he dipped into a low bow. “Ramsay Bolton, Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North, I presume?” said Daenerys, trying her best to sound friendly and warm. In truth, the Bolton boy’s madness had unsettled her, and something about him had made her instincts scream at her to get as far away from him as she could, but she would not run. She was the queen. She had an army of more than a hundred thousand Dothraki, Unsullied, Mereenese, and Targaryen supporters behind her. 

Ramsay’s eyes seemed to pierce her soul as he approached her. He knelt before Daenerys and gently kissed her hand – both his fingers and his lips were unpleasantly cold. “I have a gift for you,” he grinned. Boldly, he took Daenerys by the hand, and led her into the castle foyer, shutting the doors behind her harshly. For a reason she couldn’t quite place, Daenerys felt like she’d just been imprisoned, but she shook the feeling from her mind, and forced another warm smile onto her face. A man wearing red, and wielding a sword, approached the pair of them, holding what appeared to be a fur cloak. Ramsay wrenched the fur sharply from the arms of the sword-wielding man, and wrapped it around Daenerys’ shoulders. She was thankful for the additional warmth, but something about the gesture seemed off. “Direwolf pelt, freshly flayed from the Stark boy’s direwolf’s corpse.” Ramsay’s eyes glinted dangerously, waiting for Daenerys’ reaction. “While I appreciate the gift, Lord Bolton, I’m not sure it’s the most compelling argument for your good character to present your Queen with the skin of something murdered in hatred, for the sole purpose of taking something dear away from a little boy.” Ramsay’s brow furrowed, and anger lingered in his eyes for a second, before the same false and brilliant smile returned once more. “I apologise, my Queen. I did not mean to offend.” 

Daenerys nodded curtly, and turned to face the sword-wielding man who had carried in the pelt. “Assemble each and every one of Lord Bolton’s men, as well as the men of his Bannerman, in the courtyard outside. I wish to weigh up the good will and the character of Lord Bolton before I make him my husband. Do you understand?” The man looked at Ramsay nervously. Ramsay’s eyes were filled with fire, and the man understood he was not to follow the Queen’s orders. The man turned to Daenerys once more – “Y-Your Grace, I don’t think it w-would be wise for all the men to abandon their posts, perhaps is just some-“ he began, but Daenerys spoke over him. “I am Daenerys, of House Targaryen. Queen of Westeros, Khaleesi of one hundred thousand Dothraki, Breaker of Chains, and Mother of Dragons. I have an army of more than one hundred thousand men. I also have three dragons. I command you to ignore any orders but my own, and assemble Lord Bolton’s men, or I will personally see to your prompt execution. Now, do you understand?” This time, the sword-wielding man did not look at Ramsay. With a strained look on his face, he mumbled something about understanding his Queen’s command, and scurried off without further word. Daenerys turned to Ramsay – her violet eyes boring into his icy ones – “Don’t you ever attempt to undermine my orders again, or I’ll have your head for treason. Are we understood?” “Yes, Your Grace,” said Ramsay in a sweet voice, but through gritted teeth, “you are very much understood.” 

Less than an hour later, the sword-wielding man had returned, informing Daenerys that each and every one of the Bolton men had been gathered in the courtyard. “Come,” commanded Daenerys, locking her arm forcefully with Ramsay’s as she led him into the courtyard. Her legs were short, but powerful, and she practically dragged Ramsay Bolton along as she walked through the halls. She disliked being so close to him – she did not like the coldness of his skin or the stickiness of his breath. She especially did not enjoy his smell – he smelled of sickeningly sweet spices, and rust. His scent reminded her of decay. As they entered the courtyard, arm in arm, Daenerys pushed Ramsay from her, and commanded he sit on a nearby bench while she interrogated his men. There were perhaps three thousand men cramped into the courtyard, and Daenerys found it difficult to move around. Yet she persisted with her ruse, and called on various soldiers to answer her questions. 

“Have you ever seen Lord Bolton flay a man?” 

Her very first question seemed to catch the soldier by surprise, and he mumbled and stuttered a string of excuses on how it was the Bolton way, and was their form of punishment. Daenerys grew increasingly disgusted with every question she asked, and every answer she received.  
“How did Roose Bolton die, soldier?”

“Your Grace, he was poisoned by our enemies.” The lie was obvious and transparent. “How many times has Lord Bolton made you recite this lie, Soldier? The Umbers and the Karstarks sided with the Boltons. The Mormonts and the Manderlys had barely enough men to stomach going to war alongside two thousand Wildlings. Which enemies, exactly, poisoned Roose Bolton?” 

More stuttering and fumbling for words. More badly strung-together lies. The soldier mumbled something about not knowing, as his eyes cast downward to the ground. She moved on to the next man. 

“You – with the armour – what of Lady Frey and Roose Bolton’s infant son?”

“Lord Bolton tricked Fat Walda into walking into the kennels and fed the two of them to the fucking hounds.” Laughed the knight. 

Before Daenerys could reply, three thousand swords were suddenly unsheathed, and pointed at Daenerys. 

__

 

Jon and Benjen snuck quietly into Winterfell’s cellars. Jon had recalled the undiscovered entrance as a child – it led straight into the dungeon. Jon’s boots crunched loudly against the gravelled floor, as he climbed through the entrance, into the dungeon. Torch in hand, he stalked carefully past every cell. In a nearby cell, lay the decomposing corpse of what appeared to be a young boy, a mop of chestnut hair still clinging to his skull. Tears stung Jon’s eyes as the realisation struck him. “Rickon,” he whispered, his voice strained, “I’m so sorry.” Benjen drew in a sharp breath as his eyes shared the same awful sight. He said nothing, but patted Jon gently on the shoulder, signalling him to walk on. Jon did not move – his eyes stayed fixed on the decomposing corpse, wondering what horrible end Rickon Stark had met. Had he starved to death? Frozen to death? Had Ramsay or one of his men stabbed the boy? Jon’s heart clenched with each thought of Rickon’s death, and his breath caught in his throat. 

A wet spluttering noise dragged Jon out of his reverie, and Jon edged toward the direction of the noise. Before long, he found her. The firelight made her hair look like a pool of blood – at least that’s what Jon had thought, until he realised she had been laying in a pool of blood. Her skin was blackened and bruised, and her chest was unnaturally caved in on one side. Blood oozed from the corner of her mouth, and a patch of blood grotesquely stained her skirts, where her womanhood was covered. Even in the firelight, Sansa’s skin was pale and took on an unhealthy grey tinge. She was not awake, but Jon could tell she was alive by her ragged breathing and spluttering – but had he not heard this, he would have thought her dead. 

Jon’s rage consumed him, and kicking the barred door from its hinges had not been challenging for him. Benjen had tried to warn him about noise, and had said something about looking for a key, but Jon had neither the time nor the soundness of mind to leave Sansa as she was for even a moment longer. As gently as he could, he scooped her cold, unconscious form into his arms – careful not to touch her anywhere he thought would hurt her. He cradled her to his chest and placed his lips on her pale forehead, kissing her gently. It had been a long time since Jon’s heart had felt the bond of family, and tears threatened to spill from his grey Stark eyes. Jon was heavy with emotion – unbridled rage at Ramsay for what he’d done to the Starks, intense guilt for stupidly surrendering and accepting Ramsay’s truce, all that time ago, and intense love and protectiveness – the likes of which Jon wasn’t sure he’d ever felt. Benjen did not try and talk to him, or reassure him. Jon was thankful for this. Benjen only took Jon’s torch in his own hands, and led the way back out of the dungeons, to safety. 

At least this is what Jon thought, until they stepped out of the cellar doors, only to be surrounded by an army of Bolton men. Jon’s heart sunk to his stomach as Longclaw was drawn from his belt, and Benjen, too was disarmed. Jon’s rage silently grew as the soldiers crudely told him how they were going to ‘fuck his whore sister’s dead cunt’ while they made him watch. Jon pressed Sansa’s unconscious form even tighter to his chest. He would not let anyone hurt her again, he promised himself, not while he lived. They were lead into the courtyard, crammed with soldiers, where Ramsay’s men held Daenerys. 

Daenerys was faced with thousands of swords, and yet her face betrayed no sign of fear. “Dragon Whore, I’m going to cut that milky Valyrian skin from your body while you writhe and shriek. Perhaps I’ll fuck you first, though. Then I’ll take Westeros as my own.” Ramsay’s voice drawled, as his infamous insane grin cracked across his face once more, “You should be afraid, whore.” “Afraid of what? A vicious little boy with a head too big for his shoulders? I faced men more terrifying than you when I was but a girl. Do you really think my army will allow you anywhere near my kingdom?” It was now Daenerys’ turn to smile. Jon had never before seen Targaryen madness in her, not until now. Daenerys’ eyes glowed dangerously, and a menacing smirk danced gracefully on her lips. She wore her madness like a jewel, and this appeared to frighten the Bolton men. “Your dragon isn’t here to save you. Maybe I’ll make you watch alongside Jon as my men fuck Sansa’s cold dead cunt. Perhaps the same will befall you – I haven’t quite decided how to kill you quite yet.” “I have,” answered Daenerys. 

Ramsay’s brow momentarily furrowed. 

“Dracarys.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, please let me know what you think!  
> Decided to write up a nice long one for you guys this time <3  
> Please kudos/comment/bookmark if you like what you read. Thank you to all those who support this story, I so enjoy writing it!


	7. Jon Snow (Winterfell)

“Dracarys,” shouted Daenerys. Ramsay Bolton had begun to cackle, and mock Daenerys once more – that was until he heard the powerful wings of Rhaegal, Viserion, and Drogon. Jon had grown comfortable around the dragons during his time in King’s Landing, alongside Daenerys, but even his heart filled with fear at the sight before him. People in the Seven Kingdoms had said Drogon was Balerion come again, and Jon could not disagree. Drogon was fast earning the name “Black Death,” in reference to Balerion’s “Black Dread” with his sheer size and might. Drogon was large enough swallow a large stallion whole, and his brothers weren’t much smaller. The three dragons circled, shrieking, overhead – like vultures surveying their prey. It was when Viserion opened his great jaws that Jon remembered Sansa was not immune to fire.

Every Bolton man was utterly terrified and enthralled by the dragons, and barely noticed as Jon fled into the safety of the castle, clutching Sansa tightly in his arms. He’d called to Benjen over his shoulder, and assumed his uncle had followed behind him. Jon’s heart froze when he noted his uncle’s absence. Jon began to wonder if the magic that surrounded dragons was somewhat hypnotic to people. Perhaps, though, it was simply the fact that – to most of these men – dragons had died out centuries ago, and had become things of myth and legend. He lay Sansa gently on the ground, and knelt beside her, bending low over her so his lips nearly brushed her ear – “I’m going to fetch uncle Benjen, Sansa, I’ll be right back. I promise. I’m not going to let him hurt you again.” If she’d heard him, she did not make it known. Her eyes were still rolled back into their sockets, and her breathing had not changed. Jon hoped she would not wake before his return. He’d only be a minute, he promised himself. He did not wish to leave her, but he would not risk exposing her to dragon fire, and he would not leave his uncle to burn. With one last look at Sansa’s unconscious form, Jon turned on his heel and ran back to the courtyard with all the speed he could muster. 

He was only a few steps away when it happened. Plumes of smoke and golden fire rained down from the heavens, and shrieks and screams of pain filled the air around him. Jon coughed and gagged on the smell of charred flesh, and bile rose up the back of his throat as blackened forms twitched and writhed hopelessly in the ashes. Daenerys stood amongst all the chaos, her face serene, and her eyes shut – like some beautiful angel of death and destruction. Tongues of dragonfire licked her body affectionately – her skin did not bubble and burn like that of the men around her. Within moments, not one man had been left standing. Queen Daenerys stood in the ashes, her milky white flesh in stark contrast with the blackened ground beneath her feet. The realisation hit both Jon and Daenerys at the same time – not one man had survived. Benjen had perished in the fires. Jon’s heart clenched once more, and Daenerys’ eyes shone with unshed tears. Neither spoke out loud of what they had realised, but both understood. Benjen had died with honour, saving his niece – the last Stark – and restoring Winterfell to its true owners. 

“Ramsay – is he…?” began Jon, “yes, his burnt body should be there, by the stone bench, right over th-“ Daenerys began to reply, but her voice froze in her throat when she saw what Jon had seen. There was no corpse anywhere near where Ramsay had been. “That vile snake must have slithered back into the castle,” spat Daenerys, disgust and anger visible on her beautiful face. “Sansa,” was all Jon said. It was all he needed to say. “Go – go now!” shouted Daenerys, pushing Jon with all the strength her possessed in her small form. Jon broke into a run. He poured all his strength into getting there – getting to Sansa. He needed to protect her. He’d left her on her own, and now Ramsay was lurking somewhere in the castle, dangerous and angry. Sansa was all he had left, and he needed to save her. 

He burst into the hall and turned the corner, and relief washed over his heart as he found Sansa exactly as he’d left her, still struggling to breathe – but still alive. He fell to his knees beside her, suddenly weak from all he’d seen and done. She stirred. A hoarse whisper fell from her lips. He leaned closer. “Take it, behind you,” was all she said as she pressed a sizeable dagger into his palm. Jon’s instincts took control, and he turned around with only a second to spare as Ramsay drove his own dagger into where Jon had just been standing. Ramsay growled like a rabid dog, and lunged for Jon once more – but Jon’s battle experience served him well, and in one swift movement, sliced Ramsay from his groin to his chin. 

Ramsay Bolton’s eyes widened in agony and shock, and pressed his hands to his abdomen to try and keep his intestines within his body – yet to no avail. With a loud thud, Ramsay slumped sharply against the castle’s stone wall, and Jon did not look away from him until the last spark of life was extinguished in the Bolton Butcher’s eyes. Jon grabbed Ramsay’s corpse’s collar in his hands, and dragged the dead butcher into the charred courtyard, where Daenerys and her dragons were waiting. Daenerys was still completely nude which made Jon's face flush, and Drogon occasionally affectionately breathed small tongues of fire onto her flesh, to keep his mother from freezing. By the time Jon returned, this time carrying the barely-conscious Sansa in his arms, all that was left of Ramsay was his charred skull – the dragons had eaten the rest of his vile body. Jon wondered to himself if people like Ramsay tasted any worse than a good man, to the dragons. Could they sense evil?

Jon mounted Viserion, still clutching Sansa with all his might. 

“Vlar,” he whispered, barely audible, as he buried his tear-stained face in the crook of Sansa’s neck.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've already posted Chapter 6 today, but I thought it was just too cruel to leave you guys thinking everyone was dead, so I posted a short little follow on to keep you all satisfied until next week :)
> 
> Chapter dedicated to HoosierPotter <3 xx
> 
> Please kudos/comment/bookmark if you like what you read, or have any feedback - I really appreciate it more than you know!


	8. Marion Reyne (The Martell Ship, Lys)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ** I have made some assumptions about Rhoynish (the language), and included it because I sort of feel like Dorne should have its own language. I've also made some assumptions on what Rhoynish would sound like, so please don't murder me. This isn't canon, obviously. 
> 
> ** The Lost Lord Tarbeck is originally the 3 y/o son of Rohanne Tarbeck, but I'm changing it up a bit - just attributing the confusion to misinformation because of the insignificance of a toddler.
> 
> ** Yes, I know the handmaiden seems a bit young to be a handmaiden, but let's not forget Lady Mormont is 10 y/o and running a freaking village, and in the GoT universe, marriage at 12/13 is a normal thing.
> 
> If you enjoyed reading, please comment, kudos or bookmark - this fic will be continuing for a while - it's nowhere near completed!
> 
> If you have any feedback or ideas, PLEASE comment - I always, always read and respond. 
> 
> Thank you so much guys! <3

The ship’s cabin was large and opulent, with an intricately carved wooden bed frame and wardrobe luxuriously adorned with gold leaf, and bedding of fine silks and suede. The cabin was much larger than any room Marion could remember having, and she settled uncomfortably in the large expanse, cursing herself for ever having revealed her true heritage. If only she’d done what the brothel keeper had trained her to do; fallen to her knees and sucked on his cock, then followed him into the brothel’s bed and spread her legs for him. She’d been too proud to allow such a thing – she’d seen an opportunity when she recognised the Red Viper’s thick Dornish accent and the way everyone had shown him respect. She’d known of the prince’s infamous hate for the Lannisters – and, although he did not know it yet, that was something they shared. Marion could hear a woman’s frantic voice, babbling away angrily in what sounded like Rhoynish, and a man’s slower-paced, careful sounding replies in the same language. Marion assumed they spoke Rhoynish – she, herself, spoke both High Valyrian as well as the Common Tongue. The language they spoke sounded like an ancient dialect of Valyrian, and she could recognise a few words – “hurt this girl” – but she chose to stop listening. She knew Rhoynish was, for all intents and purposes, a long dead language – the fact the Dornish Prince and his paramour chose to speak it, instead of the Common Tongue, lead Marion to believe they did not want her to overhear. 

Aside from Oberyn’s initial attempt on her life, the pair of them were kind and hospitable. Ellaria would change the dressing on her branding wound daily, fearing it would soon become infected, and Oberyn would sit with her on the deck and tell her stories of Dorne, and Westeros. He’d occasionally indulge her with the odd political secret pertaining to the Lannisters – they were now in hiding, with the reign of the new Targaryen Queen – but Oberyn’s spies had uncovered their location. Much to Marion’s bitter disgust, the Lannisters were holed up in the crumbling ruins of Castamere – her ancestors’ home. By her third sunrise on the Martell ship, Marion was able to speak once more – albeit mildly painfully. She knew Oberyn and his paramour would have many questions. 

“You might know my father as the Lost Lord Tarbeck, a small child no older than three, but he was not of House Tarbeck. He was of House Reyne. It’s not all that surprising that Tywin Lannister received the incorrect information – at the time, he was rather young, and very impatient. He had thoughts of war and vengeance on his mind – not keeping track of which small children belonged to which families. From what I can remember of my father’s stories, a few of the Tarbecks frequently visited Castamere. Our two noble houses were as one, and the children were schooled and raised together,” Marion Reyne began telling the tale she’d kept to herself all these years, since her father’s murder. Neither Oberyn, nor Ellaria made any move to interrupt her. They sat quietly, and listened intently, seemingly looking for something in her words. “Tywin’s little mistake aside, it was assumed that my father was butchered and thrown down a well. I expect this was invented to further his reputation as a vicious, heartless ruler. In reality, my father was trapped in the Castamere mines along with the rest of his family. When Tywin’s men began to flood the mines, my grandmother’s very young handmaiden took my father, and the both of them escaped through a tiny hole in the floor, leading up into the castle. My grandmother’s handmaiden was a tiny thing for her age – and she was only ten years old – she only just managed to fit through the hole, or crack, I cannot recall exactly what it was. My grandparents had given her the jewels they’d worn – a very large sum of diamonds, and gold. She had strict instructions to spirit my father and herself away to Essos, where nobody would try to find them. In retrospect, however, this was entirely unnecessary – Tywin Lannister never bothered to count the bodies in the mine. The handmaiden raised my father, and she loved him like her own son. I did not meet her – my father sired me rather late in his life, and she had already died by the time I was born. He lived a comfortable life, and married a woman with beautiful white-blonde hair, and eyes the colour of azure seas – a remnant of the blood of old Valyria. I, however, was not born with the Valyrian beauty. I was born with the copper hair of House Reyne, but I have my mother’s eyes. They were both murdered five years ago while I was at the marketplace, fetching food. The murderers – a small group of bandits – seized all my father’s remaining wealth, and sold me off to the slave merchants, who later sold me to the Whore House in which I met you. Thankfully, the bandits did not see my silver Sigil, or I would probably still be at that awful place, with some filthy sellsword or slaver between my thighs.” 

By the time Marion finished her tale, her eyes glistened with tears she refused to shed. Oberyn seemed to notice, and chuckled lightly, “You, my dear, have the pride of a lion.” A sympathetic smile fluttered over his lips, as he placed a seemingly fatherly hand on her shoulder. “What the Lannisters have done to your family is unforgivable, and I would see each and every remaining Lannister spend the rest of their miserable lives in a Martell dungeon. Perhaps place a few of their heads on a spike outside Sunspear. It is not the usual Dornish way, but this was not a usual crime. I will help you get revenge, but first I must ask something of you.” Oberyn Martell’s face seemed to age ten years in the space of a few seconds. Ellaria, noticing this, leaned over and peppered her lover’s face with reassuring kisses, whispering in his ear. After a few moments, she drew back, and Oberyn turned to Marion once more. “Marion of House Reyne, I must ask something terrible of you. I have daughters who have been in this world longer than you have, and I will never part from my Ellaria. Yet, I must ask you to accept this of me and consider marrying me. As my wife, a Princess, you would have protection and a comfortable life free of slavers and brothels. As my wife, I could also convince my brother, Dorian, to act on your behalf in the systematic slaughter of every Lannister that lives.” Oberyn opened his mouth to continue, but closed it again, pressing his fingers to his temple anxiously. 

Marion, surprisingly, was not opposed to the marriage alliance – she’d found her freedom, and her chance for revenge. In all truth, Oberyn Martell was a kind man, though he was old enough to have been her father. Ellaria Sand, although seemingly a jealous and passionate woman, was gentle and patient with Marion – maternal even. Marion smiled weakly at Oberyn, her heart dancing beneath her ribcage, “I accept your marriage offer. Let our Houses become one.”


	9. Jon Targaryen (King's Landing)

Sansa lay unconscious on the Grand Maester’s stone examination slab – not unlike the one on which his body had been placed, thought Jon. He sat, motionless, staring at her – his eyes noting every detail, as though she would somehow awake from the intensity of his gaze. His brow was permanently furrowed; darkening his already-somber Stark features, in a terrible mixture of guilt and worry. His heart stung with every beat – he’d never felt pain of this sort, not even at Ygritte’s death. He’d loved Ygritte, of that he was sure, but the fiery intensity of the pain he now felt made his palms sweat, and his head spin. It made his breathing catch in his throat, and made him swallow his own words before they were said aloud. Jon did not know whether he wanted the pain to stop, or whether he wanted to endure it like a punishment. He wasn’t sure of anything at all in his current state. He wasn’t sure what he was supposed to do – sit by Sansa’s side, or fulfil his royal duties? Did he want her to wake up? Would he be able to gaze into her Tully blue eyes, knowing full well that he was the cause of all her years of suffering? 

Jon internally cursed himself, and the gods, for allowing his own stupidity to cause such vicious harm. He’d been worn and weary from battle, believing Sansa to be dead – he’d seen her corpse with his own eyes, he’d wept over it like a small child. Ramsay had been playing his cruel and clever games, and Jon had so desperately wanted to believe Ramsay Bolton’s words, that a pathetic half-hearted search of Winterfell’s dungeons and the castle’s rooms had satisfied him enough to leave with the remainder of his men. Tormund, of course, had tried to convince Jon to continue the fight, and take what they came for, but Jon knew he could not live with himself if he’d been the reason for the extinction of the last of the Free Folk. In retrospect, however, Jon wished he’d listened to Tormund. He wished he’d kept fighting instead of backing away like a diplomatic coward. Because of his decision, and his decision alone, Sansa had endured seven hells and worse. He wasn’t sure if he’d ever win her forgiveness – but he knew he’d spend the rest of his days making up for every moment of harm that had befallen her due to his own ignorance and naivety. 

Sansa’s breathing hitched, and she rasped and gurgled in her slumber. Jon’s breathing, and his heart, stopped momentarily. “Grand Maester – what’s wrong with her? Why does her breath sound strained? Will she live?” Jon was uncharacteristically demanding as he practically barked his question at the old man. The Grand Maester peered at Jon cryptically through watery blue-grey eyes, and paced slowly towards where he sat. The Grand Maester began picking at Sansa’s bodice begrudgingly, muttering something about ‘telling that damned Septa not to bother with the corset, that it would do more harm than anything else.’ Jon’s brows knitted together in protest, as the Grand Maester pulled back Sansa’s gown, revealing her naked torso. “I’m showing you what the problem is, Your Grace – I’m not undressing your cousin for no good reason – I am far too old for such things, in any case,” mused the Grand Maester upon noticing Jon’s obvious protest. Thankfully, Sansa’s breasts were bound in linen – sparing her last scrap of modesty. The Grand Maester gestured towards a large cut, now stitched crudely shut, between her ribs – “One of her ribs appeared to have snapped off, and punctured her lung. I have drained the blood and stitched the lung as best as my old hands are able. I could not attach the rib, so I have removed it completely – it shall not affect her appearance, though I advise against particularly tightly laced corsets in the future.” The Grand Maester’s words reassured Jon, and he noted the Maester’s reference to the future. “So she’ll live?” asked Jon, slight skepticism tainting his voice for he refused to allow himself to bask in sweet hopefulness. “She’s as close to the grave as any I have ever seen. In my opinion, as a Maester, she should have died long before you found her – but she’s far stronger than she looks, Your Grace. With the repairs I have attempted, if she survives this night – she will live.” 

The Grand Maester shuffled uncomfortably where he stood, seemingly unsure of something on his mind. “Your Grace – there is something more you should know. She has been brutally and viciously raped, repeatedly – I fear she may not be able to walk for some time due to her injuries – the person who did this wanted to damage her, but thankfully the damage is not permanent. The moment she wakes, I shall have a strong draught of Moon Tea waiting – her child is still in the very early stages of development, and thankfully we do have time to wait.” Jon had known this sort of harm had befallen Sansa – but somehow, hearing the Maester speak those words aloud had solidified the sickening reality of the extent of her trauma. “Oh Gods,” breathed Jon, his heart filled to the brim with guilt and sorrow as he placed his head in his hands, his strong fingers curling into his raven hair, and his fingernails scraping at his scalp. 

“There are no Gods.” 

Daenerys’ face was stone as she stood in the doorframe, her violet eyes flashing between the Maester, and Jon. “No Gods worth recognising would allow such an abhorrent crime against a young girl, free of the sins of the world.” “It’s my fault,” cried Jon, his voice threatening to crack. Daenerys’ face softened ever so slightly - just enough for Jon to recognise the change. She glided over to where Jon sat, and took his face in her hands as she crouched down, bringing her face within an inch of his own, “It is not your fault. We do not control the whims of evil men – we only cast justice upon them. You were kind and noble, and chose to save a thousand of your men. You did not know, Jon, and you cannot blame yourself.” Jon tore his eyes away from the floor, and raised them to meet Daenerys’, he opened his mouth to speak, but closed it almost immediately after, for no words would come to him. Daenerys brushed her thumb affectionately across Jon’s tear-dampened cheekbone, her eyes searching his face for nothing in particular. She placed a soft, and momentary kiss on his lips before turning and leaving without further word. Her actions had surprised Jon. His Queen was ruthless and cold to all men, and her show of affection, no matter how brief – had caught him off guard. He supposed it must have been a tender, friendly peck intended to bring him comfort, but he could not help but feel there was something more to Queen Daenerys’ uncharacteristic actions.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys,hope you enjoy!
> 
> *I've had a couple of people ask if the fic ends here. I'd just like to let you know this will be an ongoing fic for the next couple of months.
> 
> Thank you to all those who have shown your support and given feedback, I truly appreciate it!  
> Please kudos/comment/bookmark if you enjoy what's goin' on. <3


	10. Sansa Stark / Jon Targaryen (King's Landing)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys, sorry for the delay in writing (exam time currently),  
> In later chapters, some of the things here will be examined and explained (so yes, I am aware that there are gaps but that's intentional for now)  
> The strange deviation in Sansa's character will also be explained - probably in Ch 11 and 12 coming up.
> 
> Thanks once again for reading <3   
> If you enjoy please comment/kudos/bookmark - I really appreciate any input!
> 
> Thanks so much, everyone and apologies for the short chapter. More to follow in the next 2-4 days!

Sansa: 

Sansa sat up shivering, yet it was not cold. The pain in her side was great, but not nearly as great as it had been on the night Ramsay had nearly killed her. When was that? What day is it? She thought, confusion whirling in her mind. Where was she? Sansa swept her blue eyes around the room, resting on the candlelit silhouette of what looked like a sleeping Jon. As though sensing her gaze, Jon stirred in his slumber and sighed her name – “Sansa…” She wanted to feel anger, but she could not – her heart was filled only with affection for her sleeping cousin. A flash of white stirred at her feet, and without warning, Ghost pounced onto the foot of her bed, snarling and gnashing his teeth at something Sansa did not see. At the sound of Ghost’s rumbling growl, Jon awoke – sword in hand – darting towards the unseen disturbance. Sansa’s confusion made her want to cry, and she protectively wrapped her arms around herself, her eyes forced shut.

The sound of clashing metal and the snarling direwolf shouldn’t have scared Sansa, she thought. She really ought to be accustomed to battles and death, but her heart appeared to hold onto the last shred of her previous innocence. A few moments later, something slumped heavily and wetly onto the floor, and Sansa pried her eyes open to take in the sight of a man in Bolton armour lying face down in a pool of his own blood. Sansa’s eyes brimmed with tears – she would never be safe; could never be safe. Jon couldn’t protect her before, and he would fail still. She would meet the same end as Benjen, as Rickon, as her parents. 

Sansa was too caught up in her inner turmoil and sorrow to notice Jon sitting gingerly next to her, his dark grey eyes searching her face for something unknown. A brief flash of anger ignited her like lighting, and she launched herself towards Jon, her delicate hands balled into fists – ready to strike. She knew he would not fight back or try to stop her – she could practically taste his guilt in the air. She’d meant to hurt him, she really did – but as her body collided with his strong chest, her raised fists fell limply around Jon’s neck, and her eyes bore into his. The tension between them was almost tangible. Sansa’s anger had dissipated, but she did not stir. Her fingers unconsciously intertwined themselves with the soft curls on the nape of Jon’s neck, and the coldness of her touch made him shiver, and sigh. The pair of them stayed that way for a few more moments, their bodies pressed firmly against one another with Sansa’s legs unconsciously straddling him, her arms wrapped around his neck. 

The moment Jon opened his mouth to speak – to diffuse the growing tension, Sansa’s lips violently crashed against his. She surprised and appalled herself, but held her position. She challenged him with each movement of her lips against his, her tongue diving into his. She wanted him to taste her anger, and her affection. She wanted him to feel that she still loved him. What she did not expect was for Jon’s hand to rest on the small of her back, his lips answering her own with gentleness and care. 

 

Jon:

Sansa was a beautiful woman; Jon could not lie to himself about that. Her injuries had gradually faded during the weeks she’d lay in slumber, and her skin was once again the moonlit porcelain it had always been since he had known her. He knew he was still her brother, but he also knew he no longer was. When he’d slept by her side every night since she was rescued from that god-awful butcher boy, Jon had only meant to protect her – from people like the Bolton loyalist who’d just made an attempt on Sansa’s life. The man had not been the first to try assassinating one, or both, of them since his return from Winterfell, and he would most likely not be the last. Jon had wanted to be there for Sansa’s awakening. She’d awoken once or twice before, for a few moments. The last had been around a week ago when the Grand Maester had given her the heavy draught of moon tea. He’d said it was likely she would not remember, but that it would probably be for the best.   
Jon had expected Sansa’s fury, so when she’d balled her ladylike hands into fists and threw herself at him, he’d readied himself for her assault. He knew he deserved it, and momentarily he was glad she would express her rage by hurting him. He could handle pain – his body had taken far worse assaults. He had not expected her arms to wrap tenderly around his neck, with Sansa’s feminine form pressed against his body. He knew he should move, but he did not want to further enrage her, so he stilled himself and allowed her to do what she wished. Her Tully eyes had bored into his own, into what felt like the depths of his soul. He wasn’t sure if she was looking for something, or whether she was challenging him – but he had stayed motionless. 

It was when she had aggressively kissed him that really caught him off guard. With each moment he stayed still, her lips grew ever fiercer against his own. Shamefully, Jon’s instinct was to kiss her back. She was beautiful. She was strong. She had a similar fire to Ygritte – something he desperately sought. He suppressed his instinct until he could no longer – when Sansa’s tongue met his own. He lifted his restraint ever so slightly and answered each aggressive kiss with gentleness. Their embrace had deepened, Sansa seemingly losing herself in her own show of passion. Jon wasn’t sure whether she’d kissed a man before in such a way – but he did not break away. He did not want to break away. Jon knew that when they broke apart, she would feel shame and regret, but for now she was lost in him – and he lost a part of himself in her.


	11. Jon Targaryen/Sansa Stark (King's Landing)

Jon:

“Well, well – this is certainly an interesting turn of events,” Daenerys’ lightly mocking voice lilted from the doorway, severely knocking both Jon and Sansa back into reality. Sansa threw herself off Jon as though his touch had burnt her, her porcelain face twisting in pain as the impact reminded her of her injury. Sansa’s cheeks were fast turning a deep red, as her embarrassment visibly crept down her pale neck, into the rest of her body. Jon felt little else but confusion – he looked at Sansa, then Daenerys, and then Sansa again, seemingly unable to comprehend the reality of what had just occurred. He felt like a man who’d been rudely thrust from a dream, into reality – his head spinning, and his mind - dull. Sansa briefly looked at Jon – so quickly that he’d almost missed it. After that, she would not look at him again. She opened her mouth in an apology to the Queen, but Daenerys smiled kindly at her – “I’m a Targaryen, Sansa. I’m the very last person to which you should explain yourself. My bloodline is almost entirely made up of incestuous relationships even more scandalous than… well… what you and Jon just experienced.” Sansa smiled weakly back at her, and hurried out the door, her eyes glued to the floor and her cheeks glowing.

Daenerys turned to face Jon, her expression suddenly hardening. “What were you thinking? This girl has been through years of abuse and torture, and here you are – taking advantage of her vulnerability!” Daenerys’ accusation stung Jon’s heart like venom. “I don’t believe this is any of your concern. She was trying to attack me out of anger, and then something changed. I don’t even know what happened, but somehow all this…” The bemused look returned to Daenerys’ face – “yes, well, I have heard you know nothing.” Something in Jon cracked, and he fell into hysterical laughter. Jon’s laughter was contagious and Daenerys, no longer able to support her own weight in her fits of giggling, fell beside Jon on the bed in which Sansa had been resting, only moments ago. They both clutched their sides; tears rolling down their cheeks, from their tightly-shut eyes. Jon laughed and laughed. He laughed until his chest was heavy, but his heart was light. They both needed this – to rid themselves of the anxiety and fear that had engulfed them up until then. They needed to let go of the worry, and the self-loathing, and they did this together. Once the cackling fits subsided, Daenerys’ turned to look at Jon, her violet eyes glistening and shining bright with tears. She seemed to open her mouth to speak to him, but she made no further sound. Jon understood her, in a way. He knew what it felt like to be overcome by matters of the heart. Jon smiled gently at her, and leaned in. Daenerys closed her eyes, and her lips parted in anticipation – for it had been so long since she’d felt a man’s tender touch – but it was not to be. Jon placed a feather light kiss on her brow, and cupped her chin in his large hand, peering into her eyes. 

He wanted to show Daenerys that she was not alone in her affections. He certainly felt affection for her, and he was almost sure he could learn to love her in the way she wanted. However, he could not indulge her on this night. For now, his heart and soul was centred on Sansa’s survival and her recovery. He had loved Sansa for far longer than he’d known his Queen. He’d loved her when they were only children, despite her juvenile aversion to him. It was not such a grand shift – to transition from loving her as his sister, to loving her as… He wasn’t sure. Questions whirled and crashed around in his mind as though they were birthed by a hurricane. Despite his commitment to Sansa, he felt a small pang in his heart upon seeing Daenerys’ poorly concealed disappointment. “I need Sansa to get well again, I need her to be alright,” was all he managed to say as his throat became thick with emotion, and smothered his voice. Daenerys said nothing, but he knew she understood. Perhaps, in time, it would be her lips pressed so passionately against his. 

 

Sansa:

As soon as Sansa had exited the doorway, she broke into a clumsy run. Her long legs felt stiff and awkward from lack of use, but she persevered regardless. She needed to get away from everything – everything was wrong. She knew it had been weeks since she’d escaped the bloody talons of Ramsay Bolton, but to Sansa, it was only a few hours. She had only just awoken, and everything frightened her; everything was different. Someone had tried to murder her in her slumber, Jon had killed a man, she’d attacked and kissed Jon all at once, and Daenerys had seen everything. King’s Landing was both alien and familiar, and that unsettled Sansa. For all the torment she had undergone during the Lannister-Baratheon rule, it had still felt like something of a home. The walls, passages and courtyard were all so familiar, yet they were now decorated in the Targaryen red and black. Sansa could distantly hear Drogon and his brothers as she ran. Everything was wrong. Sansa hadn’t been paying attention to where she was going – she’d just allowed her body to steer her, and she now found herself in the bedchamber that had once belonged to Tyrion Lannister after their wedding. It was the only place in the whole of the Red Keep that she had ever felt truly safe – perhaps that was why she brought herself here. The chamber was furnished, but unoccupied, and Sansa clawed at the bed covers and blankets and buried herself there. She shut her eyes tight and listened only to her own breathing.

Inhale – Exhale  
Inhale – Exhale

She was nearly asleep when a gentle rap on the door brought her back to full consciousness. Sansa was truly exhausted – she’d only just awoken, but everything that had happened paired with the all-encompassing darkness of the sky had pulled from her, any energy she’d had. She did not answer the person at the door, and she did not even turn as their footsteps led towards her. She didn’t care who it was – whether it was Jon, or Daenerys, or an assassin – she did not have the strength to care. She felt the mattress lightly sink as the intruder sat down on the bed beside her – she still did not turn to look. 

“Sansa?” Jon’s unsure voice whispered into the night air. Sansa had wanted to ignore him, and pretend he was not there – as she did when they were children, but she was no longer a child, and she could not pretend. She did not move other than to open her eyes, and sigh in response. “May I stay with you, Sansa? I want to protect you, and I can’t protect you if we’re apart.” “No one can protect me,” answered Sansa with nothing but ice in her voice. Her coldness was aimed less at Jon, and more at her memories, but it hurt him nonetheless. “I don’t blame you,” she continued, “I know you would never have left me there had you known. I know you would have rather gotten yourself killed than abandon me, but that doesn’t erase the past two years.” Jon shifted to lay beside Sansa, above the covers, but close enough that Sansa’s heart picked up pace. “I have never lain with a man of my own volition. Tonight was the first time I had kissed a man of my own volition. I want to say sorry, but I’m not. I feel strange knowing that we were once family, but I’ve known for two years who you really are. News like that travels fast, even to prisoners like me. I am sorry that I forced my feelings on to you. I’m broken, Jon. I’m disgusting and soiled and you cannot mend what is broken.” Jon cautiously shifted beneath the covers, the cool night air beginning to pierce his clothing – for he did not wear his cloak. “Sansa, the first and only woman I ever lay with had so many men, I had to ask her to stop naming them,” laughed Jon gently, “She was not disgusting. She was not soiled. Neither are you. You’ll find a husband who loves you and treats you the way you have always deserved to be treated. You will find someone that sees fire in your hair, winter in your skin, and rivers in your eyes – and they will not think twice about that Bolton butcher.” Jon lay on his side, and Sansa lay on her back, her face turned away from Jon still. She rolled onto her side, and gingerly backed into him, so her back was pressed firmly against his chest. “You’re a Queen, Sansa.” “And you’re a King, Jon.” 

 

Jon:

Sansa drifted to sleep soon after those words left her lips, but Jon did not sleep until the sky was the colour of plum, and gold. His mind was alight with what she had just said. King of the Seven Kingdoms, and Queen of the North. It had been centuries since such a powerful match had been made. They would not have to lie together as a husband lies with his wife. Sansa would be safe, and loved, and the kingdom would have its desired match. He wasn’t sure what Sansa would think – but for now, it didn’t matter. He would prove her wrong. He would show her that if anyone could, he would mend what was broken.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys, I still haven't got around to my inbox and I'm so so sorry, I'm getting around to that tonight to please keep sending your wonderful suggestions, or your critique - I promise I appreciate it all, and I do read every message!
> 
> If you haven't already, if you're enjoying this work, please let me know by kudos/comment/bookmarking. 
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> ** This is an ongoing work - it will have many more chapters after this, so if I ever leave you on a cliffhanger - do not fret.
> 
> Thank you so much to everyone for the support <3


	12. Jon Targaryen (King's Landing)

Jon awoke with Sansa’s pale arm draped lazily across his chest. She lay on her side, her fiery hair splayed across the pillow, and her legs twisted in the bed sheets, exposing the porcelain pallor of her skin. The sun had only just begun to rise, and the pink and gold sky lit a blazing halo around Sansa’s auburn crown. Jon’s dark grey eyes drank in her beauty, and his heart swelled a little in his chest. His plan was to marry her so he could protect her for the rest of his life, but somewhere in his heart, he knew he would love her like no other man would. He would admire the liquid blue in her eyes, the winter pallor of her skin, and the fire in her hair. He would worship her and guard her – after everything she’d lived through, it was what Sansa deserved. Briefly, though, thoughts and images of Queen Daenerys and her proud regality flickered through Jon’s mind. Jon suppressed them just as quickly as they’d appeared, reminding himself of his silent promise to Sansa. Above all else, she was his family – he hoped desperately that Daenerys would understand. 

Sansa muttered and winced in her sleep – her breathing growing steadily heavier and harsher. Jon did not wake her, but watched her in her tortured slumber, his heart breaking more and more with every broken cry that escaped her lips. Suddenly, Sansa’s eyes flew open, and she began flailing her arms and legs, and mumbling semi-coherent pleas. Before she had a chance to realise where she was; that she was safe – Jon pulled her firmly onto his chest and wrapped his arms around her tightly. She’d initially protested with sobs of “please don’t,” but Jon held her steady and kissed her forehead tenderly until Sansa had calmed down. “I’m sorry,” she whispered brokenly, “I thought you were –“ “I know who you thought I was,” Jon interrupted her before she could utter the words, “but I’m not him. You’re safe.” Sansa did not respond with anything more than a defeated sigh, and sank back into Jon’s arms – her resistance diminished. Sansa’s eyes sank shut, but Jon could tell by her erratic breathing that she was very much awake. “Sansa, I want to ask you something. We’re cousins by blood, even if we are siblings at heart. I am expected to choose a woman to wed – and I want to wed you.” Jon had meant to introduce the idea in a gentle, subtle way, but his own tactless candour had gotten the better of him once again. Jon had expected Sansa to jump up and flee, but she’d surprised him. Sansa’s elegant shoulders tensed under Jon’s arm, and the air was laden with confusion and suspicion. “Why?” Was all she’d asked. 

“Why do I need to choose a bride? I’m twenty three, Sansa, with no wife or child to my name.” “Why do you want to marry me?” Sansa had completely ignored his response. “Because you are Queen in the North, and it would be a powerful alliance between Houses Stark, and Targaryen.” “You’re a Stark, and we both know it. Ned Stark was our father. Last I heard, the title of Warden of the North belonged to Bran.” Sansa’s words were emotionless and frigid, but Jon had expected no less. “Nobody has seen or heard from Bran in years, Sansa. While Ned Stark raised me as one of his own, I am your cousin by blood – we are eligible to wed. Please, Sansa, I can protect you. I could love you –“ “Nobody could love me,” spat Sansa, “I’m destroyed. Queen in the North or not, I’m no longer a maid. No longer worthy to wed a prince such as yourself.” 

“Nor am I.” Jon’s sudden confession brought a smirk to Sansa’s face, and she raised one perfect auburn brow “Weren’t you Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch?” laughed Sansa. “Stop asking so many questions,” replied Jon – his eyes narrowing in laughter as he playfully avoided delving into the details of his intimacies. The smile was still lingering on Sansa’s lips as she opened her mouth to speak once more – “I still see you as my brother, I don’t know if I could… if we could…” “Half-brother,” corrected Jon, acutely aware of where her words were heading. “Brother, half-brother, whether you like it or not, you have the heart of a Stark. You’re more like Father than the rest of us combined.” “The heart of a Stark, and the looks of a Stark – I have. Yet Targaryen blood runs through my veins. We wouldn’t have to consummate the marriage – not if you didn’t want to – I’m the safest man you could ever wed. You know I could never touch you in any way you don’t want to be touched, and it won’t just be me looking after you. As a princess of the Seven Kingdoms, you have the entire Queen’s guard watching over you. Nobody would ever be able to force you into anything, ever again. I know you once said I couldn’t protect you – and you were right, but I will not fail you a second time. I will devote my life to your happiness.”

Sansa’s brow gently furrowed with the weight of Jon’s suggestion, thoughts almost visibly whispering behind her Tully blue eyes. “Will the people not talk?” “Which people? The people that would have talked are mostly dead. When Arya decides to stop trying to track down the Lannisters, and comes back to King’s Landing, she’ll be the biggest of our worries – and she’s never been very big.” “A big pain, perhaps,” laughed Sansa, her eyes glistening with the news of her sister’s safety. A silence passed between them before Sansa carefully reached out and placed her hand on Jon’s arm and searched his Stark grey eyes. “I will marry you, Jon Targaryen. I thank you for your willingness to protect me and look after me, but I have one request – teach me how to fight so I may also protect you should the time come.” Jon’s eyes crinkled with happiness, and his heart sighed with relief – “Then let it be done. We shall be wed within the next fortnight.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys, here's another chapter for you - as promised. This one is a little more slow-moving than the others, but I think it does its job. I'm still getting around to replying to the comments - I haven't forgotten you guys. I really do appreciate all the input - it really helps me so much!
> 
> If you enjoyed, please don't hesitate to comment/kudos/bookmark - and I do somewhat take requests if it fits in with the storyline :) Thanks so much to everyone for your support!
> 
> **This is an ongoing fic (will be 20+ chapters), so no need to worry if there's a cliffhanger!


	13. Sansa Stark/Jon Targaryen (King's Landing)

Sansa:

Queen Daenerys had, with a strained smile, given her blessing on the union of Jon and Sansa, but she’d seemingly made an effort to avoid them both since the news had broken. Sansa did not understand why – she’d allowed her mind to wander, once or twice, and it had brought images of Jon and Daenerys’ naked forms intertwined beneath the sheets in the Queen’s Chambers. Sansa could not place why, but the images had pained her so. Even just the thought of Jon’s lips upon those of another pained Sansa with an intensity not unlike her broken rib piercing through her chest. She could not bring herself to understand why – she knew she was supposed to love Jon as her family; as her brother. Perhaps she was just unaccustomed to the affections between man and woman, she decided. It certainly could not be her own feelings, she decided – it had to be something else. Perhaps she’d been deprived of love for so long that she was no longer able to make the distinction between the varying sorts of love. Brotherly love, amorous love – it was all the same to her, she supposed... and yet, somehow she knew it was not all the same. Jon was her brother, she chided herself sternly. Her brother! Perhaps not by blood, but at heart. She certainly knew she had strong feelings for him – and she supposed it surely wasn’t uncommon for a woman to fall in love with her saviour – but she did not want to delve too far into the depths of her own heart. She’d been a stupid little girl with stupid dreams all her life, and her heart had done nothing but lure her into the darkest and coldest of nights. 

It had been almost a week since Jon’s spontaneous proposal, and the date set for the wedding grew near. Daenerys had been kind and had gifted Sansa every exotic trinket and fabric Sansa ever could have imagined. It was tradition for the bride to wear the colours of her future husband’s house in her dress, but as the circumstances were so unusual, and since Sansa had had her share of traditional wedding ceremonies, they had decided to break tradition. She’d insisted on making her own dress – despite the fact her stitching and dressmaking talents went greatly unpracticed for so long. Before long, Sansa had rekindled the talents she’d possessed as a girl, and had sewn the most beautiful lilac dress, made from the same light and floaty fabrics that Margaery had worn so frequently throughout the palace. The dress’ back feigned modesty, and covered up Sansa’s entire back, with tiny fabric-bound buttons trailing down her spine. She had purposefully designed it this way – so that nobody would see her many scars from the torments of Joffrey and Ramsay. The front of the dress, however, was not at all modest. Sansa had opted for a deeply plunging neckline, reminiscent of the High Garden fashion. Her arms were bare; save for a delicate cap sleeve that only just brushed her shoulders. The dress nipped in tightly at her waist, before blossoming out into cascades of draping fabric, creating a beautiful flaring skirt. She hoped she would look the part of the bride Jon had always wanted, but her heart sunk with the realisation that he was marrying her, not for affection, but out of his own guilt. 

Sansa had barely realised she’d been walking through the castle corridors. After spending so much time locked in her chambers in Winterfell, she liked roaming the warm, airy halls and passageways of the Red Keep. Perhaps she might have stayed in her reverie, if not for the sounds of clashing swords and grunting men, somewhere nearby. Sansa turned a corner and found herself at the foot of the courtyard, where her husband-to-be and Ser Bronn were duelling. Even with all Jon’s many titles throughout his lifetime, Sansa had never truly envisioned him as a man. In some ways, to her, he was still just a boy. Perhaps it was his tender heart, or idealistic way of looking at the world – but Sansa had never truly seen him as a man. Not until she saw him in the courtyard. Jon wore no shirt, and his muscular chest was smeared with mud and beads of sweat. His muscles rippled with each manoeuvre of his body, and each powerful swing of his sword. His long hair had escaped its tie, and tendrils of black hair were plastered to his sweat-covered face. Each step he took resonated expert confidence, and each grunt that escaped his lips was alight with passion. Jon, and Ser Bronn switched positions, and Jon’s defined back now faced Sansa. Inexplicably, her fingers ached to trail along the glistening grooves and bulges of his muscles; to breathe him in. 

The fighting suddenly ceased when Ser Bronn caught sight of Sansa unconsciously staring at Jon with wide eyes and a gaping mouth. With a devilish grin, he raised one eyebrow and cocked his head in Sansa’s direction. Unfortunately for Sansa, Jon had swivelled on his heel and had witnessed her ogling for himself, before she had the chance to regain her usual demure composure. With a wide smile, he sheathed his sword, and sauntered over to where Sansa stood. Her face seemed to grow a deeper shade of red with each step he took in her direction, and she could not understand why this was so. She felt like giggling, and like crying all at once. Jon stopped closer than an arm’s length to Sansa. His masculine scent was intoxicating, and was not at all conducive to Sansa’s mental clarity. He smelled of burning forest wood, basil, sage and something else Sansa could not quite place. His body was chiseled and defined - his close proximity to Sansa stole from her, the remainder of her presence of mind. Though Jon was smeared with mud, and sweat, he smelled clean and masculine to Sansa, and in all honesty, she could have basked in his scent all day. 

“My lady, may I be of some assistance?” 

Sansa’s mind raced with excuses, and she stood in front of Jon like a crimson sculpture. “I- I- Wanted… You said that you would teach me how to fight, so I came to find you to ask you to teach me.” Sansa internally chided herself for her fumbled reply. Jon cocked and eyebrow and looked Sansa up and down, which miraculously turned her an even deeper shade of scarlet. Sansa could feel the burning heat radiate off her face and ears, and was sure Jon could practically feel it with his closeness to her. “You want to learn how to fight dressed like this?” Jon laughed, gesturing to the silver brocade dress Sansa donned. “If I ever need to fight, I won’t have time to change into breeches and armour! If anything happens, I’ll most likely be wearing a dress because – you know – I’m a lady, so I should know how to fight whilst wearing one,” retorted Sansa defensively. “Besides,” continued Sansa, “It only takes a few moments to remove my corset, so I won’t be wearing any heavy clothing or anything.” Jon’s smile grew ever wider, and he raised his eyebrow at her once more, “with all due respect, my lady, I’m not sure I could keep a clear head if you were standing in front of me… as you say, not wearing anything.” Sansa swatted him hard on the arm, and Jon jumped back in mocked pain, “Oh, you know what I mean!” 

 

Jon: 

Of all the battle techniques he’d shown her just that day Sansa had taken to archery. She’d barely managed to keep the sword in her hands, and couldn’t bring herself to throw a decent punch at Jon. Her skill with a dagger was definitely greater than the average person, but her skill with a bow and arrow was almost unbelievable in its excellence. Jon had shown her only thrice, before her arrow had hit within an inch of its target. He’d poked fun at her by telling her it was probably beginner’s luck, and she’d responded by whacking him on the shoulder with her bow. Her blow had actually hurt, but Jon was far too amused to react. Jon had retreated to the shade beneath a nearby tree to rest, and to allow Sansa to practice her newfound talent on her own. Each arrow she loosed was more precise than the last, and the intervals between shots grew shorter, and shorter. Jon watched in awe as Sansa drew her seventh arrow. The sunlight caught her fiery tresses, and her silver brocade dress billowed regally in the breeze. She twisted her body ever so slightly to expertly align herself with her target. Her chest gently heaved and fell as her arms proudly extended and drew back to loose the arrow – she looked like some sort of warrior goddess; fearless and proud. Jon could not tear his eyes from her. The arrow hit the epicentre of the target, precisely in the middle of the red ‘X’ Jon had painted. Reminiscent of the Bolton sigil, mused Jon, suddenly worried it had offended Sansa. Sansa dropped her bow to the ground and threw up her arms in celebration, a glowing smile forming on her full lips.

Jon took in the sight and savoured each passing moment.

This woman is to be my wife, thought Jon, his heart stretching with the strength of his pride.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's an update for you guys which I really, really hope you'll like. This one's a lot more light-hearted than any of the others, because honestly - I think everyone needs a break from all that intensity.
> 
> I hope you all enjoy!
> 
> Please comment/kudos/bookmark if you enjoy, or if you have any feedback! I do read everything, I promise, sometimes it just takes me a few days - but I always get there. 
> 
> Thanks so much to everyone for all the support and feedback <3 You guys keep this story going!


	14. Sansa/Jon (King's Landing)

Sansa stood nervously outside the Sept’s towering wooden doors, and anxiously smoothed her skirts, for what was probably the fiftieth time. The last time she’d set foot in this building, it was to marry Tyrion Lannister, she recalled. How funny it was that it would be none other than Tyrion to lead her down the aisle, to marry a man she once thought of as her brother… well, half-brother. Sansa did not mind that Tyrion would be present – he had always been so kind to her, and since his loyalties had shifted, Sansa liked him all the more for it. She did, however, wish he would hurry up and make himself present, as she could practically feel the impatience of the wedding guests coming from within the Sept. Sansa took a moment to admire herself in the ornate mirror behind her – she had never been a vain woman, but she truly did look beautiful. Her lilac silk and organza dress fitted her body like a glove, and blossomed out like a winter rose at her waist. Her hair was styled in loose curls, with the top section braided back – as a warrior-esque tribute to Queen Daenerys and her fashions from Essos. Sansa had never been to Essos, but Daenerys had promised to take her to the silk markets in Lys, and the gold merchants in Qarth some day soon. The Queen had always been so very kind to her – and her most recent kind gesture had almost made Sansa burst with gratitude. The Queen’s wedding gift to her had been a beautiful silver tiara, which looked like it was made from forest leaves dipped in molten silver, with a matching belt for her dress. Between each silver leaf was a tiny hand-cut amethyst, which caught the sunlight beautifully. Amethyst was uncommon in King’s Landing, and she was sure it would certainly catch the interest and envy of every woman in the Sept. Sansa looked tall, elegant and regal – but also soft and beautiful. She was certainly no longer a child, as she had been for her first marriage, and arguably her second marriage too. Sansa quickly pushed her wedding to Ramsay Bolton out of her head – he was dead, she was done with him, and she would never have to see his face again, let alone endure his ruthless tortures. She caught herself, once again, hoping that Jon would be happy to see her this way – that she would be the bride he had always imagined. The hope of Jon’s happiness filled her heart with a strange sort of desperation. Her mind knew he was about to marry her out of guilt and duty, but the last girlish remnants of her heart longed to believe otherwise. 

“Sansa, my Lady –” huffed an out-of-breath Tyrion as he trotted around the corner, “you do look exquisite.” Sansa smiled nervously at Tyrion, though she was grateful for his kind words – her throat was too dry from her own anxiety to reply. Tyrion’s sympathetic smile told Sansa he understood, “Sansa, do not fear. I know your history with weddings has not been cause for celebration, but Jon is a good man, and you are a very beautiful, and very strong woman. This will make you happy, whether you can see that now or not.” Tyrion reached out for Sansa’s hand. Her fingers shook ever so slightly, but her grip was sturdy and sure. With his free hand, he pushed open to doors of the Sept of Baelor, and gently led Sansa forward. The sept was beautifully adorned, noted Sansa, with hundreds of flickering white candles, and white roses lining the aisle. Banners of glittering white organza were strung from the roof, and small mosaicked lanterns from Essos, which held tiny candles were suspended on golden ropes. A loud shuffling sound echoed throughout the Sept’s hall as every guest seemingly simultaneously shifted in their seat, to get a look at the bride. There were no snide whispers or somber glances, as there had been when Sansa married Tyrion Lannister many years prior. Sansa shyly raised her eyes which had been fixed to the floor in front of her, to meet the gaze of her husband-to-be. Jon’s eyes were wide with wonder, and his mouth hung obviously agape – and he made no move to hide or rectify this, for he appeared to be utterly transfixed on Sansa. Sansa’s confidence shot through the heavens, and her heart soared. She knew it was not necessarily true, but she felt, in that moment, like the most beautiful woman in the room. 

Before Sansa had an opportunity to catch up with the pace of her own thoughts, the ceremony began. “Do you, Lady Sansa of House Stark, take this man, Lord Jon of House Targaryen to be your husband?” “I take this man,” said Sansa – barely more audible than a whisper. “Do you Lord Jon of House Targaryen, take this woman, Lady Sansa of House Stark, to be your wife?” “I take this woman,” said Jon – his voice proud, and sure. “Let these two Noble Houses be unified as one.” Jon turned to face Sansa, as he removed his black and red cloak, and placed it on her shoulders. With a chaste kiss, the pair were declared wedded, and the celebrations began.

As beautifully as the Sept was decorated, even more exquisite was the courtyard in which their wedding feast was held. Bushes and bouquets of white and lilac roses were placed everywhere, held together with ribbons of white satin, from which tiny jewels dangled. It was only late afternoon, but already a large bonfire had been lit, and all the many candles and lanterns from inside the Sept appeared to make their way onto the banquet tables. 

Sansa began to feel inexplicably embarrassed by the whole affair, and nervously avoided conversation and eye contact with Jon. This was not difficult, though, as it seemed every man in King’s Landing wished a word or a dance with her. Prince Oberyn suddenly appeared in front of her chair, as though out of thin air. By his side, stood a demure and insecure looking girl with rosy hair and pale, yet golden toned skin. “Princess Sansa,” smiled Oberyn, throwing his arms out as he dipped into a low bow. “Congratulations are in order for your marriage.” Sansa smiled bashfully, as her cheeks flushed a deep shade of crimson. “Prince Oberyn, thank you for accepting our wedding invitation. Who is this lovely lady? I have not seen your paramour, Ellaria.” Sansa gestured to the rosy haired girl that stood next to Oberyn Martell. “This, Princess Sansa, will be my wife in a few moons. Meet Marion Reyne” 

Sansa’s jaw dropped open and her breath caught in her throat. “Reyne? House Reyne? That’s… That’s impossible” “Yes, Princess, there is much to discuss,” smiled Oberyn, “but that discussion can wait for the morrow. For tonight is a celebration of your marriage, and the joining of Houses Targaryen and House Stark. In the mean time, however, I need to pry our good Queen away from Lady Margaery’s clutches and have a word. Enjoy your celebrations, my Lady.” Oberyn bowed once more, before vanishing into the crowd of dancing nobles. “House Reyne…” whispered Sansa to herself, still in shock. A strong hand clasped Sansa’s shoulder and thrust her out of her own thoughts. She swiveled in her seat to locate the source of the hand, and her gaze was met by her now-husband, smiling warmly at her. “My Lady, it is nearing the time for us to retire to our marriage bed, but I do hope you will honour me with at least one dance as my wife, before we take leave of the celebrations.” “Of-of course,” stuttered Sansa, as she got up out of her seat, ready to make her way to the dance floor. 

As Jon led her to the dance floor, everybody else hastily vacated. Sansa was not sure if she was glad of this or not, but tried to put it out of her mind that hundreds of pairs of eyes were currently fixed on the pair of them. The musicians started on their fiddles and drums, and played a dark-toned Volta. Sansa had not danced in longer than she could recall, and she had never actually danced a Volta with a man, but as soon as the music started, she knew she did not need any lessons. Sansa twirled and sashayed around Jon, almost provocatively. The tune of the music awoke something deep within her, and this day she had no intention of suppressing it. A nearly invisible smirk adorned Jon’s lips as she watched Sansa twirl around him. Sansa stopped to face him, little more than an arm’s length from where he stood, and gazed up at him coyly. Jon offered out his arm, which Sansa took by the forearm. Jon placed his hand over Sansa’s and expertly pulled her close to him, and bit his lower lip as he did. As he placed his free hand on her hip, she twirled around him once more, a small smile playing on her lips. She had completely forgotten about the crowd, and if Jon hadn’t known better, he would have placed her smile as seductive. She came to a rest facing him, her face only an inch away from his own, and placed Jon’s hand on her hip for him. The pair of them moved as one – backwards, forwards, spinning, and swirling. Jon, admittedly, lost himself in the dance, and grabbed Sansa by the waist, hoisting her up into the air, spinning as he did. He let her slide down his body, chest-to-chest, as they continued the dance. Sansa too seemed to lose herself, and she followed each of Jon’s steps and leads as though they had practiced together for years. There was something more behind this dance, Sansa could feel it, though she would not allow herself to believe it. As if by instinct, Sansa launched herself at Jon, hooking her legs around his hips, her torso falling back, as Jon spun around with practiced grace. Sansa’s feet found the floor once more, and Jon dipped her backwards, so low her hair almost brushed the hem of her dress. As the Volta drew to a close, Jon lifted Sansa in his arms, her one arm looped around his neck, and with that – he carried her to their marriage chambers. 

There seemed to be no clear end to the dance until Jon shut their chamber door behind him. The room was dimly lit by a few candelabras and a soft fire crackling in the fire place. They did not speak, or make any move towards one another. Jon removed his shirt, and locked eyes with his bride. He had opened his mouth to speak, but Sansa raised her hand to silence him, and removed her belt and tiara, before freezing in place once more. It was not fear that gripped her heart, as she had expected it to be – what she felt was a strange mixture of nerves, carnal fascination and thrill. As though continuing the Volta, Sansa launched herself at Jon once more, only this time he did not pick her up to twirl with her. Instead, he drew her body to him, and lowered his lips to meet hers. He kissed her deeply and aggressively, his desire making itself known. He was practically shivering with anticipation, but Sansa did not mind. In fact, a part of her was glad. She kissed him back with the same passion and intensity, and a quiet, low moan escaped his throat. Sansa turned around, so that her back faced Jon, and swept aside her hair as an indication for him to unbutton her dress. With each button he undid, he swept a feather light kiss across her skin, and Sansa shivered longingly with each brush of his full lips. Her dress fell to the ground, and Jon’s mouth fell lightly open upon the realization that Sansa had not worn any smallclothes. Truthfully, Sansa had never consciously intended to go down this path, and had only chosen not to wear smallclothes as her dress looked better in their absence. However, in this moment, she was glad for her decision. 

Jon picked Sansa up, and carried her to the bed, taking care to lay her down as gently as his arms would allow him. He removed his belt, but he did not remove his trousers. Sansa lay on the marriage bed, staring up at the ceiling, her nerves suddenly reappearing, though her desire did not wane. She felt Jon’s weight at the foot of the bed, making his way closer to her. She had expected him to be on top of her, and a surprised gasp escaped her lips as Jon spread her porcelain thighs, and kissed them from the knee, moving his lips closer to her womanhood. It seemed as though Jon was well aware of what he was doing, and so she made no move to stop him, though her pulse quickened. Jon’s mouth found her womanhood, and he began to kiss her there. His tongue worked circles and spirals around a part of her that was the most sensitive. Despite her previous marriage, no man had ever explored this sensitive nub of flesh between her legs. She felt her womanhood moisten and contract in desperate longing, as an electric pressure began to build between her legs. The pressure seem to build, and build to a point where she was no longer sure what was pleasure, and what was pain, before violently crashing down on her like a wave. Her spine arched, and her muscles tensed. Her fingers clawed at the bed linens, and a loud cry of ecstasy escaped her lips. The edges of her vision seemed to fade, and her pulse quickened as though she was running for her life. 

Jon drew back and dropped his trousers to the stone floor, before standing at the foot of the bed, hungrily staring Sansa in the eye. Her eyes roamed the contours of his body, emphasized by the flickering dim candle light. His jaw was clenched in a manner that was both thrilling and intimidating, and his eyes bored into her, unblinking. She ran her eyes over the hard bulges of the muscles on his chest, down his rock-solid muscular arms, over his chiseled abdomen, finally resting on his erect, throbbing cock. Sansa’s eyes widened in shock, suddenly intimidated. If she was to place Jon at double Ramsay’s size, it would not be an exaggeration. His cock was huge, and thick, as it stared at her like a hungry serpent. Jon crawled carefully and slowly onto the bed, making his way to Sansa as though she was a frightened woodland deer that would run off any second. Despite her sudden surge of fear, Sansa remained stoic in her decision. She was not going to turn back now, and she knew that she wanted this more than she would have admitted to herself. 

Jon halted on top of Sansa, spreading her thighs with his knee. She made no move to resist him, other than shutting her eyes. Jon leaned in to kiss Sansa once more – she could taste the sweet, and yet also bitter taste of her womanhood on his lips, and though she would never admit this out loud, she enjoyed it. Jon placed the head of his cock at her entrance, and steadied himself. Without warning, he sank his full weight between Sansa’s legs as his cock forced its way inside her. Sansa clawed at Jon’s bare back, sharply inhaling due to his sheer size inside her. She felt like she could not move, for she was being stretched in ways she could never have imagined. It was now that she was glad she was not a maiden; a man of Jon’s size would surely have caused excruciating pain. Jon pushed into her until his groin met with hers; until he was all the way inside of her. Sansa’s breathing was ragged and without rhythm, but Jon could see from her face that she was experiencing great pleasure. Even whilst still, Jon’s cock pleasured Sansa in ways she did not realize were possible. As he stretched and filled her, her body became alight and a pressure of a different sort hinted at building. Jon began to thrust slowly in and out of her, causing Sansa to writhe and moan. “Faster,” she begged, as he slowed down to a torturous pace. “What did you say, my lady?” growled Jon with a devilish smirk. “F-Faster, please” she begged, gripping his hips in anticipation. Once again without warning, Jon thrust hard and fast into Sansa, the force of his thrusts making her cry out, and causing the bed’s headboard to knock noisily into the castle wall. 

The second wave of ecstasy that found Sansa was even more powerful than the one before it. It caused Sansa to twist and writhe, and scratch, “no more,” she cried desperately, “I can’t take it.” This only spurred Jon on further, and his pace grew faster still, bringing another wave of sweet release crashing down over Sansa. She drew her legs up and wrapped them around Jon’s hips, drawing him even deeper within her womanhood than he had been. As Sansa reached her final peak, she clenched her legs tightly around Jon, who could not handle the intensity of his own pleasure any longer. With a loud groan, Jon emptied string after sting of his seed so deep within Sansa that there was no more room for it to go. Sansa shivered as she felt Jon’s warm seed spread within her womb, satisfying the most carnal side of herself. The thought of Jon’s heir growing inside her filled her with joy and satisfaction. Both covered in sweat, and both out of breath, they did not make any move to say any more words to one another. Jon slumped back onto the bed, and drew Sansa onto his chest, and so they rested in bliss.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> After a long hiatus due to personal reasons, I am back on a permanent basis.
> 
> Thank you so much to everyone for your support and interest in this work. I hope this chapter will be to your taste.
> 
> Any comments/constructive criticism or even ideas are welcome.
> 
> Thank you so much everyone <3 
> 
> Please bookmark/kudos/comment to show support if you like this work, so I know to keep it going xxx


	15. Sansa Targaryen/Jon Targaryen (King's Landing)

Chapter 15: Sansa Targaryen/Jon Targaryen

Sansa awoke in the silver light of a crisp winter morning, as a gentle but icy breeze licked at her exposed arms and legs, raising goosebumps. She was, at first, mildly disoriented, having momentarily forgotten exactly what had transpired the evening before. She was still wrapped around her now-husband, Jon, who – although asleep – had a protective and territorial arm around her waist, keeping her body drawn close to his. Inexplicably, she suddenly became modest and embarrassed at what had happened between Jon and her during their wedding night. She knew that it was, after all, their wedding night and that this is what was done between a husband and wife, regardless of familial ties prior to the marriage… but for the briefest moment, she cringed as she imagined what Ned Stark would’ve had to say. Sansa wondered if the maids in the castle would gossip, and if everyone had assumed, like she did, that the union was less out of passion, and more something out of duty. 

Jon’s arm snaked tighter around her naked waist, and rolled onto his side so his face rested on Sansa’s bare breasts. Sansa’s cheeks flushed as something carnal within her threatened to stir. She could feel the memory of her wedding night in her womanhood, but not as it was when she was married to Ramsay Bolton. This was not pain, but a dull pleasurable ache that made her want more. Sansa shifted her form ever so slightly, noting a sticky wetness between her thighs that she would have, under any other circumstance, been disgusted by. Somehow, though, the fact that it was Jon’s seed seeping out from within her filled her heart with contentment, and satisfied her body. After all those daydreams, as a girl, of beautiful knights who’d sweep her off her feet, she had finally found hers. It was both cruel and funny, she mused, that after the gods forced her to surrender all hope of a happy ending, they’d finally gifted her with one. Something deep within Sansa worried that perhaps it was too good to be true, and that Jon had taken a little too much ale with his supper at their wedding feast. Just as her mind started to stitch together unhappy scenarios, she heard Jon’s voice.

“Good morning, wife”

“Good morning, husband,” Sansa smiled, running her hand over the skin of Jon’s muscular arm which had been pleasantly cooled by the chill of the morning air. 

“I hope our wedding night wasn’t too bad for you,” jested Jon, with the faintest hint of a question in his voice. Sansa knew Jon was far too polite to ask her directly. 

“I didn’t know it could feel like that… you know. Until last night, I never could understand how men could pay for it. I understand now.” 

“Sansa Stark willing to pay for sex? Never thought I’d hear that one,” laughed Jon. Sansa smacked him sharply on the arm.

“Sansa Targaryen now, I suppose, and you know what I meant,” retorted Sansa in mock anger.   
“I must be honest with you, Sansa. I did not expect last night to turn out the way it did… but the only thing I regret is that I finished so quickly. What kind of a man must you think I am?”

Sansa blinked incredulously at Jon, her mouth agape. “You must be joking.”

“Does it look like I’m joking?”

Sansa sat up, unconsciously clutching the bed linens to her chest to cover her naked body as she did. She turned to Jon and momentarily stared at him through narrowed eyes, as though she was waiting for him to say something contradictory. A few long moments of silence passed. 

“Jon, you lasted what must have been over an hour. By the time we were finished, the fire had nearly died and the wedding guests could no longer be heard.”

“aye.” Said Jon, matter of factly. 

“Well I wouldn’t change anything about last night. As much as I enjoyed…” Sansa paused, taking a moment to summon the candor to continue, “…having you inside of me, your… well… size… is not something to which my body is accustomed. You’re easily double the size of R- … of any man I have ever seen.”

A broad grin spread across Jon’s face, “Wait until you see me when I’m not nervous.”

“What do you mean?” Sansa seemingly still held remnants of her naivety and girlishness. “Does it get…bigger? Bigger than it was last night? Surely not...”

Jon laughed gently, “you’re very direct this morning. Yes, Sansa, it gets bigger when I’m not nervous. You’ll see when we… “Jon caught himself and paused. “…If we do it again. If you want to.”

A strange smile spread over Sansa’s lips – the likes of which Jon hadn’t previously observed - and Sansa edged towards him, her fingertips brushing over his naked flesh, from his chest, slowly downwards. 

“Do you think you could show me now?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys,  
> Still busy with exams (seems like they last forever), but here's something to keep the fire going
> 
> **more to come in the coming weeks 
> 
> <3 As always, comments/kudos/bookmarks are welcome and appreciated! 
> 
> Still haven't had the chance to check my inbox (I wrote this during a study break) but I'm getting there, I promise!


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